


A Storm of Honey and Sun

by gompadre



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Fingering, Frotting, M/M, good ole booty sex, inaccurate depictions of life in the southwest united states, magic sex???, romantic desert dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-09-01 04:03:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gompadre/pseuds/gompadre
Summary: Kyungsoo hates working slow summers at the dumpy motel in his town. At least, until a really hot, really dreamy guest with heart-shaped Miu-Miu sunglasses checks in. Suddenly, Kyungsoo doesn't want this summer to end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Reckless #32  
Warnings: Can I put a warning for purple prose? I'm putting a warning for purple prose. Don't say I didn't warn yall.  
Author's Note: Whoever prompted this, I hope you like it! It's probably not at all what you expected but this fic kind of took on a life of its own.  
Disclaimer: I have no idea how jukeboxes work.

This was the second summer Kyungsoo had decided to work at the motel at the edge of town. It was incredibly out of date, tarnished retro decor and neon lights that served as relics from the motel’s grandiose opening in the 60s. Some time in the late 70s, the current owner bought the place, revamping it with the name Motel California, a move copied by endless corny motels across the country. Probably a good move at first, but soon the dusty little town lost its appeal, and the addition of a highway a few miles south diverted the majority of the traffic. The motel refused to dissipate into the surrounding desert, its crown of neon pink lights flickering above the heat-scrubbed metal; the whole building was too glitzy, reflecting the harsh sun with a vengeance. It was a miracle they ever got guests, but they did. As of that sleepy, late June afternoon, there was Jeannie, a blonde haired girl with a penchant for wide floral print dresses and wide leather belts who thought herself the next Georgia O’Keeffe; Parker, a Midwestern dude with the jock look Kyungsoo hated, overly buff with close cropped dark blonde hair (Baekhyun and Kyungsoo soon took pleasure in watching Parker try to woo Jeannie and fail miserably); Antoine, the New Englander who thought himself the next Jack Kerouac, going out into the desert in baggy earth-toned clothes and wire-rimmed glasses (Baekhyun insisted Antoine definitely had a thing for Jeannie too, but all Kyungsoo saw was a stammering guy who dropped his glasses too often when the blonde was around); Luca and Bailey, the lesbian photographer-and-model couple who took dramatic pictures splayed on the sofa lobby; and finally, Blake, the “aspiring director” on his way to actual California (though Kyungsoo was fairly certain the closest Blake would get to Cali was this motel).

A slow afternoon, like most afternoons. The fan was on high, whirring as it blew cold air Kyungsoo’s way; the AC in the lobby was faulty, but the owner seemed to have no intention of fixing it. Kyungsoo was hunched over the front desk, crossing out a sentence in his notepad when the front door opened. With a “fuck” muttered under his breath, he sat up straight, and promptly froze when he saw who walked in.

The guy was gorgeous, full lips and skin the same warm tan as the desert rocks. His eyes were obscured by heart-shaped Miu Miu sunglasses (Kyungsoo only knew the brand thanks to Baekhyun), hair in a braid, pink fur coat hanging off one shoulder. At that, Kyungsoo snorted. What an idiot, wearing a coat like that in a place like this. There was a smug air about him, in the saunter up to the counter, the slender, elegant fingers that came to a rest on the granite countertop. There was a faint sheen of sweat on the guy’s forehead, but when the fan blew his scent Kyungsoo’s way, he smelled of the dry desert heat and the sweetness of coming rain. Kyungsoo frowned.

“Motel California, huh,” said the guy, popping his gum.

Kyungsoo grumbled an acknowledgment, steeling himself for what he knew would come next.

“Such a lovely place,” he murmured, leaning on the counter with a cheeky grin. Kyungsoo only stared, annoyance simmering under the deadpan look he was giving the guy. “Such a lovely face,” the guy continued, unfazed.

“Wonderful, brilliant, never been done before,” Kyungsoo snarled.

The guy whistled, raising his eyebrows.

“Wow, tough crowd,” he mumbled, but he was still smiling, a smirk that showed off his teeth, teeth that Kyungsoo sort of (only _sort of_) wanted sinking into his thighs.

“Look, are you staying here or not?” Kyungsoo snapped.

“Mhm,” he said.

“You gotta pay up front. How many nights?” he asked, shaking the mouse so the computer’s faded screen woke up.

“How much for the whole summer?” the guy asked, smug when Kyungsoo gaped at him.

“It’s cheaper if you rent an apartment for three months,” he squawked. “Why would you want to stay in this dump for that long?” Jeannie and Antoine and Blake made sense, but this guy screamed luxury. And he was hot.

The guy shrugged, leaning forward.

“This place understands me,” he said.

Kyungsoo waited for an explanation, but none came, so he turned to the computer.

“Top floor or poolside?” Kyungsoo asked.

The guy hummed, resting his chin on his hand as he slid his sunglasses down. His eyes were dark, a black as absolute as a moonless desert night. Kyungsoo shivered, swallowing hard.

“Which would you recommend?” he asked.

“Top floor has better views,” Kyungsoo mumbled.

The guy watched Kyungsoo click on the room number, his eyes heavy on Kyungsoo’s skin like afternoon desert heat. Kyungsoo swallowed hard, turning back to look at the guy. Naturally, he froze.

“I, uh, need a name now. And the money,” said Kyungsoo.

“Jongin Kim,” he said, smiling.

“ID?” Kyungsoo asked, clacking away at the keyboard.

“Lost it,” Jongin said, though he sounded unbothered.

“Wh— well, I need it,” Kyungsoo sputtered.

Jongin pouted, pulling a stack of bills from his pocket.

“Do you really?” he asked.

Kyungsoo stared. Because nothing said “I’m doing illegal shit” like no ID and a fat stack of bills; an unhelpful little voice in his head said staying three months in one place was probably an indicator of not-illegal shit, given that someone on the run would pay by the night.

“Are you shitting me right now?” he squeaked, fixing his glasses.

“Would your boss _really_ care if he has one guest with no ID if he’s got a room paid for three months in cash?” Jongin asked.

And Kyungsoo cursed, because Jongin was right. The owner wouldn’t give a shit, not when the motel was tanking anyway and they desperately needed more guests. So he sighed, sucking his teeth.

“1,367 dollars,” he said. “That includes complimentary breakfast, Wi-Fi, parking, and pool access. You’ll have to find a place to do laundry though.”

Jongin grinned, counting the bills and handing them over when he was done. Kyungsoo took them with wide eyes, eyeing the still-fat stack in Jongin’s hands.

“You, uh, might wanna deposit that. I wouldn’t trust the safe deposit box here,” he said, counting the bills.

“Duly noted.”

“Well, uh, here’s your room key, elevator is to the left over here,” said Kyungsoo, pointing past the stairs.

Jongin took the keys, flashing Kyungsoo a toothy grin. He hummed, fixing his sunglasses.

“I’m thinking, of course, of the peach before I ate it,” he said cryptically.

Kyungsoo frowned, watching him saunter off to the elevator before he turned back to the counter. His current read, a book of poems by D.H. Lawrence, was tucked under the raised section of the counter, where it should have been out of sight. Kyungsoo took the book with a trembling hand, flipping to the index in search of the word. Yes, there it was. He flipped to the poem page, the title, Peach, in bold letters at the top. Halfway down the page was the line Jongin quoted; he shivered. There was the ghost of Jongin’s voice, deep as it purred the line again. Kyungsoo closed the book and tucked it back under the counter, hugging himself in spite of the heat.

—

The next time Kyungsoo saw him was at the pool edge. Kyungsoo had come to check the area, wiping down the lounge chairs in the shade of the awning. Jongin was already there, shirtless and wearing the stupid sunglasses as he lay on a lounge chair. Kyungsoo tried not to stare, but Jongin had a nice body, toned enough to make Kyungsoo’s cheeks warm.

“Still will I harvest beauty where it grows,” Jongin’s soft voice broke the silence, making Kyungsoo jump.

“What?” Kyungsoo sputtered, shifting to hide in the shade entirely.

“St. Vincent Millay,” said Jongin, his head bobbing to look in Kyungsoo’s direction. “Isn’t that what you’re reading now?”

“How do you—” Kyungsoo stopped himself, squeezing the rag in his hand.

“Lucky guess,” said Jongin, lowering his sunglasses to wink at Kyungsoo. At Kyungsoo’s stunned silence, Jongin laughed. “I saw the book on the counter, that’s all.”

“Right,” Kyungsoo whispered, scratching his neck.

“You like to write?” Jongin asked, fixing his sunglasses as he stood up.

Fuck, he was taller than Kyungsoo remembered (yes, two days was enough for Kyungsoo to forget — or, well…not _forget_, but Kyungsoo’s memory seemed to have fixated on the warm glow of his feline eyes, the sensuous plumpness of his lips…). Long, long legs and well-muscled thighs. Kyungsoo gulped.

“Sort of,” he replied.

“Sort of?” Jongin repeated, laughing at Kyungsoo’s blush. “That’s a new one.”

“I’d like to, but I don’t think I’ll get anywhere with it,” Kyungsoo said softly.

Jongin tsked, shaking his head. Kyungsoo tried not to stare at the strand of hair that stuck to Jongin’s sweaty neck. Typical visitor; they would sweat like pigs, rivers running down their foreheads and backs. Except Jongin looked hot when he was sweaty. Kyungsoo caught himself and swore. Since when did he like _sweat?_

“Doubt is the worst kind of poison,” said Jongin.

He patted Kyungsoo’s arm. A simple touch, and yet Kyungsoo felt the ripple of groaning earth beneath his feet and the piercing screech of desire from a Swainson’s hawk that flew overhead. Kyungsoo stumbled, catching himself before he crashed into the wall behind him. Jongin was already gone. Kyungsoo touched his arm, rubbing the spot Jongin patted, but nothing felt out of the ordinary. He shuddered and walked inside.

He saw Jongin again later that day, half an egg roll in his mouth. Despite the string of cabbage that hung from Jongin’s lip, he looked glamorous, legs too long for the lobby table, his burgundy shirt buttoned up only halfway. Kyungsoo sighed, wishing the lighting was brighter so he could stare at the triangle of gold framed by the burgundy satin, but the lighting didn’t change, dim as it obscured Jongin’s chest in shadows.

“Want some?” Jongin asked, holding an egg roll in his chopsticks.

Kyungsoo lurched into action, blushing when he realized he’d been caught staring.

“Oh no, that’s okay, that’s your food,” Kyungsoo said, fixing his glasses.

“I ordered for two,” Jongin said, finally slurping the piece of cabbage into his mouth.

Kyungsoo looked at the food laid out on the table, the fried rice and sesame chicken, styrofoam cartons full of crab rangoon and Mongolian beef. He hadn’t eaten yet; his stomach betrayed him with a gurgle. Jongin smiled, waving the egg roll. Eating Chinese food in the lobby of the motel wasn’t Kyungsoo’s ideal dinner date, especially when he was in the clothes he’d worn all day and Jongin was in his satin shirt and ankle boots with three inch heels. Everything about this was absolutely ridiculous.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Jongin took the egg roll in his fingers and stood up, walking over to Kyungsoo. And Kyungsoo, like an absolute idiot, just stood and stared, swallowing hard when Jongin held the egg roll to his mouth.

“Open up,” Jongin purred, pressing the egg roll against Kyungsoo’s bottom lip.

Kyungsoo obeyed, blushing when Jongin slid the egg roll into his waiting mouth. Jongin hadn’t taken his eyes off of Kyungsoo, tip of his tongue against his top lip as he looked up to meet Kyungsoo’s eyes, because this wasn’t awkward enough already. Kyungsoo bit the egg roll with a snarl, a futile attempt to break the tension. Jongin laughed, splaying himself back on the egg chair, other half in his hand.

“Sit, come on,” he said, handing Kyungsoo a plastic fork.

And Kyungsoo, still reluctant but ravenous, sat in the other chair, pouring rice into the styrofoam lid. He almost felt guilty, taking all this food, but Jongin was right, this was food for two.

“Mm, such an appetite,” Jongin murmured, watching Kyungsoo eat with hooded eyes.

“Uh, thanks?” Kyungsoo mumbled around a cheek-full of rice.

“I appreciate people who like to indulge their hunger,” he said cryptically.

And Kyungsoo tried not to choke, because _naturally_ his thoughts turned south; it was like Jongin _wanted_ him to think of sucking him off. He turned his attention back to his food, but the silence was too much, especially when he could feel Jongin’s eyes on him.

“So, where are you from?” he asked, wincing at the loud _crack_ of the rangoon when he sunk his teeth in it.

“Here,” Jongin answered.

Rice dribbled out of Kyungsoo’s mouth. Nice.

“There’s no fucking way,” he said. “I know all the asians who grew up in this dump, and you’re not one of them.”

Jongin arched his eyebrows, curling his tongue around a piece of chicken. Kyungsoo scowled.

“Where are you _from_?” Kyungsoo gritted.

But his answer was silence. Smug silence, which annoyed Kyungsoo even more. He bit into a piece of sesame chicken with a vengeance, trying (and failing) to ignore the pleased look on Jongin’s face; it wasn’t like Jongin looked hotter while he wore that air of arrogance. Not at _all_.

“Oh sweet, is that Chinese food?” Parker asked, breaking the tightly wound silence by barging into the lobby in a too tight shirt. He wore his usual idiotic grin as he approached them, reaching for a rangoon.

But Jongin was too fast, landing a resounding smack on the back of Parker’s hand.

“I didn’t give you permission to take one,” he said curtly.

“Wha— How come you get to eat but not me?” Parker squawked.

“It’s my food, moron,” Jongin snapped.

Parker curled his lip, a thinly-disguised way of hiding his anger. He muttered something under his breath, too low for Kyungsoo to hear, but the cutting look Jongin sent his way made the jock scuttle away with a cautious look over his shoulder.

“Why _are_ you sharing this with me?” Kyungsoo finally asked.

Jongin took his time dipping the egg roll in its sauce, lips pursed as he inspected it. Just when Kyungsoo started to think he was super hot, he did something weird. Well, that was probably good. It wasn’t like Kyungsoo _wanted_ to have a crush on him. Not really.

“I sure as hell wasn’t going to share with anyone else in this motel,” Jongin answered at last. He bit into the egg roll, apparently satisfied with the amount of sauce it had, and munched for a moment. “Honestly, I don’t know. I just wanted to share something with you.”

Kyungsoo blushed. He was a self-proclaimed foodie, and he didn’t know if Jongin had somehow guessed this (or gotten it out of Baekhyun), but it made his heart flutter. After all, the road to his soul was paved with delicious food.

“Thank you,” he said softly, dragging the teeth of his fork across the styrofoam top.

Jongin winked at him, popping the rest of the egg roll into his mouth with such ease it made Kyungsoo blink twice (in his defense, three-quarters of the egg roll was left; the little part of his mind that he labelled the Baekhyun part helpfully supplied the idea that Jongin could very _very_ easily deep throat).

Thankfully, Kyungsoo was able to finish his meal without cause to blush again. Jongin was already done, slumped in the chair as he chewed on his straw.

“Was it good?” he asked.

Kyungsoo leaned back, rubbing his too full stomach. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Jongin said softly.

The quiet that followed was interrupted by Jongin’s soft sigh before he sat up, dumping the containers into the bag. Kyungsoo watched him, too absorbed in mapping the brooks and hills of the back of Jongin’s hand to realize he probably should have been helping.

“It’s a good thing this place has a working elevator or I’d be in trouble,” Jongin said with a chuckle.

Kyungsoo snorted, adjusting his glasses. The usual post-meal lethargy had already settled, and he sighed because merely the thought of walking to his car seemed like too much effort.

“I think you might want to reserve a room for yourself tonight,” Jongin teased. He stood, shoving the bag into the trash can, but he swung back around to swipe his can from the table.

Kyungsoo groaned. “I’m already here all day, I definitely don’t want to stay the night.”

Jongin gave him a coy smile, pressing his cold, wet fingers to Kyungsoo’s forearm. Kyungsoo yelped, glaring up at Jongin’s laugh.

“Well, at least now you’re more awake,” Jongin quipped.

“Ha ha, how considerate of you,” Kyungsoo huffed, rubbing at the wet spot to warm it up again.

“I try,” Jongin said with a proud smile. “Good night, peach.”

Kyungsoo nearly fell out of his chair, so startled by the pet name that he only sputtered in response. By the time he’d composed himself, Jongin was gone, and the lobby was empty in the evening gloom.

—

He heard the crisp snap of a can being opened. Kyungsoo stifled a groan, hoping it wasn’t another one of Parker’s attempts to make a pass at Jeannie; last time that happened, Antoine had noticed and the night had ended with Parker and Antoine in a heated argument about the contributions of the Beat Generation while Jeannie watched. And, naturally, it had been up to Kyungsoo to clean up after them. 

But it wasn’t them. It was Jongin, feet propped on the end of the sofa, beer can in hand, condensation seeping onto his fingers. He was wearing a crop top, under which he wore a mesh top, a crisscross of black on tantalizing squares of tupelo honey. Jongin stretched, exposing more gold as his shirt rode up. His hair was loose, and his pants were flared, his black boots with three inch heels in the air.

“You off yet?” Jongin asked, taking a sip.

“I’m gonna close up the front now, yeah,” said Kyungsoo.

“Come back when you do,” said Jongin.

Kyungsoo raised an eyebrow, stretching the silence to make it seem like he was indecisive; if Jongin’s sly smile was anything to go by, he’d seen right through Kyungsoo’s ruse. Kyungsoo shrugged.

“Okay.”

He walked off, turning the lobby lights off, shutting down the computer, and extracting his notebook from its nook before he shuffled back to the lounge. Jongin held out his can of beer, waggling an eyebrow when Kyungsoo froze.

“Afraid of a little spit?” Jongin asked.

Kyungsoo rolled his eyes, took the can, and sipped. The beer was the least of what he tasted, a perfume of brewed wheat heavy with thick, sweet aloe gel that dripped down his throat.

“Did you lace this with something?” Kyungsoo sputtered, beer spilling from his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ears burning, and dried it off on his pants.

“Don’t need drugs when you’re high on life,” said Jongin said with a lopsided smile.

“I’m serious, Jongin,” Kyungsoo hissed, shoving the can back.

Jongin took it, sighing.

“So am I,” he said, dragging his tongue across the rim of the can. “I didn’t put anything in this, but you can grab another one if you want.”

Kyungsoo shuffled to the fridge, pretending not to notice the disappointed look that crossed Jongin’s face. He cleaned the can with the hem of his shirt, opened it, and took a sip as he sat on the chair beside the sofa. Jongin ran his fingers through his hair and fuck if that wasn’t the hottest thing Kyungsoo had ever seen. Kyungsoo’s eyes lingered on the glint of Jongin’s parted lips, but — naturally, with his luck — Jongin noticed. He muttered a soft but heartfelt _fuck_, chugging half the can before he set it down. Jongin was gracious enough not to tease him. The taller stood up, ambling towards the jukebox, and ran his fingers across the buttons, the condensation on his fingers streaking the holographic blue of the numbers; Kyungsoo had a flash of an image, of hot cum streaked across the bronze of Jongin’s skin, Kyungsoo’s own fingers dragging through the abstract splatter.

With burning ears, he lowered his eyes. Jongin didn’t seem to have noticed, his can of beer clinking against the display glass when he leaned against the curve of the jukebox. He glowed, illuminated by the neon lights as he punched in numbers.

“Dance with me,” said Jongin, stretching out a hand towards Kyungsoo.

Kyungsoo choked on his beer, the can nearly slipping from his fingers. Condensation dripped onto his bare calves, making him shiver. That wasn’t the only reason for his shivering though; Jongin had closed his eyes, pushing himself off the jukebox as it clicked to find the right song.

“I can’t dance,” he said.

“Can’t or won’t?” Jongin asked, swaying his hips to the opening bars of Hotel California.

“Both, especially because you picked that song,” Kyungsoo huffed.

Jongin threw back his head and laughed, running a hand through his hair.

“Come _on_, dance is about having fun,” Jongin purred. “Have fun with me.”

Kyungsoo’s thoughts definitely did _not_ automatically swerve towards a dangerously sexual territory. No, not at all, not when Jongin was pursing his lips to croon the lyrics, hair falling over his shoulders and Kyungsoo could only think that Jongin would look just like this if Kyungsoo sucked him off. He blushed, sinking further into the chair when Jongin came closer.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jongin said with a chuckle, “unless that’s what you like.”

Kyungsoo growled when Jongin took his hand but stopped when it was echoed by the growl of a cornered coyote; he stood, meek, and took his hand back, heat rushing to his neck. Jongin pouted, taking the can out of Kyungsoo’s hand and putting it on the table.

“Just feel it, don’t think too much,” Jongin said, hips swinging slowly.

“I can’t _not_ think about it,” Kyungsoo grumbled.

But he tried it, fumbling a two-step that made Jongin giggle. Kyungsoo sucked his teeth, with a petulant stomp to seem intimidating.

“Come here,” Jongin purred, hand snaking to Kyungsoo’s lower back to pull him close.

And with that touch Kyungsoo’s desire spiked, sultry and heavy, Jongin’s breath on his neck like the sweet humid breeze of a rainy evening. Kyungsoo trembled, swaying with Jongin; he wanted to bolt, but Jongin pulled him closer. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes to focus on the lyrics. He hoped, maybe foolishly, that searing the lyrics into his mind’s eye would drown out Jongin’s touch, but of course, _of course_, Jongin started crooning too.

“Mirrors on the ceiling,” Jongin sung softly, and Kyungsoo stumbled, caught off guard by the dizzying warped reflection of himself on the mirrored ceiling of Jongin’s room as Jongin fucked him on the bed (did his room _have_ mirrors? Kyungsoo couldn’t remember). “The pink champagne on ice.”

Kyungsoo shuddered, frowning at the sweet taste of champagne in his mouth. He turned to look at Jongin, but instead his nose crashed spectacularly against Jongin’s jaw, the resonating pain of boulders falling in a canyon. He hissed, stumbling away to rub his nose. Jongin’s laughter followed him, and soon his fingers stroked the bridge of Kyungsoo’s nose, soothing, soft warmth that made Kyungsoo melt.

“Sorry,” he said.

Kyungsoo grumbled his acknowledgment of Jongin’s apology, trying to worm away from Jongin’s touch. It was maddening, and Kyungsoo wanted more of it, but he still didn’t _know_ Jongin so he batted Jongin’s hand away and grabbed his beer can before he flopped onto the sofa.

“I _told_ you I’m no good at this,” he muttered, sipping his beer.

Jongin rolled his eyes, tying his hair into a messy ponytail, and Kyungsoo didn’t bother stopping himself from staring at the flex of Jongin’s abs underneath the mesh. He’d always thought mesh shirts stupid, but now he was tremendously grateful for the exhibition.

“What about a more upbeat song?” Jongin asked, pursing his lips as he scanned the jukebox.

Kyungsoo shot him a pointed look. “No song will make me _want_ to dance.”

“Not even a classic?” Jongin asked, looking childishly silly as he punched in the number with exaggerated gestures.

Kyungsoo didn’t get the chance to retort, interrupted by the rich growl of Elvis Presley’s voice proclaiming he wasn’t nothing but a Hound Dog.

“Really,” he said flatly.

Jongin swung his head back and forth in time with the song, unbothered by Kyungsoo’s sour mood, matching the swing of his hips as he snapped his fingers. At the staccato of the drums, he shook his head like a dog, giggling when his hair slipped out of the ponytail. Kyungsoo snorted into his can, trying to hide the smile when Jongin looked his way, but couldn’t.

“_Join_ me,” Jongin whined, pursing his lips and shimmying his shoulders as he inched closer to Kyungsoo.

“So I can look as ridiculous as you?” Kyungsoo asked, giggling when Jongin shook his hips.

“That’s half the fun,” Jongin sang, wiggling his eyebrows.

Kyungsoo shook his head, the spouts of giggles bubbling up now that’d he’d given up on playing the grouch. Jongin curled his finger towards Kyungsoo, but the smaller refused, laughter shaking his shoulders when Jongin twirled off in frustration.

“I can’t be the David to your Nani if you’re not willing to let loose,” Jongin said with a shimmy.

“Mm, unfortunately we’re in the middle of this charmingly rustic desert in some hick town and not on Hawai’i,” Kyungsoo said, but there was no edge to his voice. Jongin’s response was to stick out his tongue; how mature.

“Kaua’i, actually,” Jongin corrected.

“My _point_,” Kyungsoo half-growled, “is that we’re as far from a tropical island paradise as we can be.”

But of course Jongin was twirling in time to the song, making faces as Kyungsoo talked. Kyungsoo rolled his eyes, flicking condensation from his can Jongin’s way. He giggled at Jongin’s yelp, but it did little to stop the other from his dance.

The song was coming to a close, which Kyungsoo lamented; he liked to watch Jongin move, and the silliness was a welcome reprieve from Jongin’s usual intensity. Jongin finished the song with flair, flipping his hair back and draping himself onto the jukebox on the last note.

“Impressive,” Kyungsoo quipped; what he was actually impressed by was the athletic ease with which Jongin’s back matched the curved of the jukebox, baring the soft gold of his abs, which shone with a fine sheen of sweat. Kyungsoo was transfixed, watching the warm, butter yellow of the lobby lights suffuse his skin, iced by the neon blue of the jukebox.

“Impressive enough for you to dance with me?” Jongin asked.

Kyungsoo hesitated to answer, distracted by the pink of Jongin’s tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“N-no,” Kyungsoo said. His ears grew hot and he gulped, hating how self-conscious Jongin’s gaze made him.

“Please?” Jongin asked, shuffling over to Kyungsoo’s chair and kneeling in front of him.

Kyungsoo balked, frozen as Jongin steadied himself with Kyungsoo’s knees, his hands feverishly warm against Kyungsoo’s bare skin.He tried not to stare, but Jongin was just too stunning, his lips a tantalizing deep pink that reminded Kyungsoo of ripe berries. He wanted a taste.

But he bit the inside of his cheek to interrupt that train of thought. Jongin was pouting up at him, fluttering his eyelashes and resting his chin on his hands. What a dick. There was no way Kyungsoo could resist, his heart swelling when Jongin let out a pitiful sigh.

“_Fine_,” Kyungsoo gritted. “But only the one.”

Jongin perked instantly, though the smirk that followed formed slowly, giving Kyungsoo the chance to take in each pearly tooth, canines sharp; Kyungsoo gulped, willing himself to calm down, but he couldn’t wipe the desire to be bitten by Jongin from his mind. Since when had he ever been into that?

“You’ll be begging me for another song,” Jongin said with a grin, darting out of Kyungsoo’s reach before the smaller could react.

“No I won’t,” Kyungsoo sputtered, putting his can on the table.

Jongin only rolled his eyes, punching the numbers into the jukebox. The machine ruffled through the disks, finally settling on the right track. By then, Jongin was at Kyungsoo’s side, hand out for Kyungsoo to take. So Kyungsoo took it, swallowing hard when Jongin pulled him close. It should have been suffocating, and yet as opening notes of Bring It On Home to Me began Kyungsoo found himself relatively calm. Jongin started to sway, his hands on the small of Kyungsoo back as he guided them both into a gentle two-step. Kyungsoo snaked his arms around Jongin’s shoulders, and let himself get comfortable with their proximity; he was close enough to be enveloped in Jongin’s scent, which was warm notes of spiced citrus entwined with cedarwood. It was intoxicating, especially when combined with the warmth of Jongin’s arms, the gentle steadiness with which he guided Kyungsoo, and the hypnotic, slow sway. He found it harder to keep the distance between them, however small it was now; their chests were touching, after all, but he felt the need to touch a little more. So, he indulged. He nosed the crook of Jongin’s neck, resting his cheek on Jongin’s shoulder, and breathing in the heady scent. And yet, all this did was exasperate this growing desire inside of him, one that craved the small intimacies of an established life, of slow dancing in the living room with his beloved of many years on a Sunday evening — an evening that would undoubtedly end in slow, heated sex on the sofa. Kyungsoo curled his fingers into the fabric of Jongin’s shirt, closing his eyes.

And all too soon, the song faded into silence, which was briefly interrupted by the hiccup of the jukebox as it filed the disk away. And just like that, the spell was lifted. Kyungsoo froze in Jongin’s arms, all too aware of just how weird this felt. He was snuggled in the arms of a _stranger_ (a stranger he’d known for a week, who was hot and cute and funny and breathtaking, but _still a stranger_). Kyungsoo jerked back, still clinging to Jongin’s shirt but far enough for him to miss Jongin’s scent.

“I— I have to go,” he rushed. “I mean, I should get going now, because, you know, I have to open the motel tomorrow and I want to make sure I get enough sleep, is what I’m saying. It’s getting late.”

Right, now he’d made a fool of himself, jabbering on like that. But Jongin didn’t seem fazed; he was wearing a light smile, looking at Kyungsoo in a way that made Kyungsoo shiver because he _knew_ Jongin was seeing right through his ruse _howdidhedothat_.

“Careful on the road,” Jongin said softly. “Sleep well.”

He pressed a soft kiss to Kyungsoo’s forehead, which made Kyungsoo squeak and let go of Jongin. He blushed, shuffling sideways to get to the door.

“Good night,” Kyungsoo said, his voice cracking.

“Your notebook,” Jongin called out, picking it up from the table.

“Fuck,” Kyungsoo stumbled back, tripping over himself to grab the notebook out of Jongin’s hands. Somehow he didn’t trust Jongin with the notebook, as if the other could read it without bothering to open it. “Thanks.”

“Mhm,” Jongin hummed.

Kyungsoo forced himself to walk across the lobby again, slow enough to look normal (he hoped) but fast enough to get him away from Jongin as soon as possible.

—

“Come on,” Jongin said, interrupting Kyungsoo’s furious scribbles with the jangle of his car keys.

“What?”

“We’re going for a ride,” Jongin said cheekily, leaning on the counter with a smug grin as he pushed his heart-shaped sunglasses down.

“We?” Kyungsoo repeated. “W-wait I’m not done for the day.”

“What are the chances you’ll get a new guest today when the last guest to check in was me and that was a month ago?”

Kyungsoo opened his mouth to reply, but closed it when he saw Jongin’s cheeky smile.

“At least let me tell Baekhyun,” he mumbled, skirting the counter and giving Jongin a wide berth.

He found Baekhyun folding towels, humming to Never Gonna Give You Up. Typical. Baekhyun flashed him a smile, then narrowed his eyes.

“What’re you here for?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Can’t I just come to say hi?” Kyungsoo spluttered, but Baekhyun’s laugh was a sure sign his act had failed. “Jongin wants to go out for a drive.”

“Ooh, first name basis, huh?” Baekhyun wiggled his eyebrows and shimmied.

“Shut up and cover the front desk, will you?” Kyungsoo grumbled.

“Anything for you to get the best dick you’ll ever get in your life,” Baekhyun quipped, dodging Kyungsoo’s punch with a cackle.

But despite landing a solid punch (a second attempt) on Baekhyun’s arm, Kyungsoo didn’t feel like he’d won. The walk back to the front consisted of Kyungsoo fuming, and Baekhyun a few steps behind, just out of reach, singing lewd nonsense. Jongin was waiting for them, a pen between his teeth as he looked over the rim of his sunglasses.

“Is that _my_ pen?” Kyungsoo squawked.

Jongin let it fall from his lips with a clatter, then gave Kyungsoo a toothy grin.

“Oh come on, why complain about a little spit on your pen when you’ll be swallowing his— ow!” Baekhyun bent over, holding his stomach, which Kyungsoo had just elbowed. But, much to Kyungsoo’s annoyance, he was laughing.

“I really don’t know why I’m your friend,” he hissed.

“_Best_ friend,” Baekhyun corrected. “Because I’m like one of ten Korean people in this scrub town, and the other nine are either related to you or to me.”

“You left me out,” Jongin whined. Kyungsoo totally hated the whine, except he actually loved it, and he loved the little stomp of protest that jostled Jongin’s sunglasses and made them slide halfway down his nose.

“Mmm,” Baekhyun hummed cryptically.

Jongin raised an eyebrow, and he and Baekhyun stared at each other, each with a knowing look, for what seemed like eternity. Kyungsoo didn’t like where that was going.

“Can we go?” he huffed.

“Have fun,” Baekhyun chirped. “Be safe, always use lots of lube, and _please_ tell me everything afterwards.”

“I hate you,” Kyungsoo said, but Jongin threw back his head and laughed.

“Kyungsoo’s the writer, he’ll do a better job of it than me,” he said, winking at Kyungsoo, but Kyungsoo only gave him a sullen look as he followed him out.

Only to stop at the door of the hotel, jaw hanging while Jongin opened the passenger door of a wine red Camaro with the top down.

“_This_ is your car? I thought this was Blake’s car,” said Kyungsoo.

“I’m offended,” Jongin said, hand on chest in mock shock. “Hop in, we don’t have that much time.”

“Time for what?” Kyungsoo asked (he absolutely was _not_ thinking about how shady this car was, and he was _not_ remembering the wad of cash Jongin paid with).

Jongin looked up at the yellowing sky, glowing with warmth, then climbed into the driver’s side. He smiled at Kyungsoo, fixed his sunglasses, and started the car. And because curiosity always got the better of him, Kyungsoo climbed in.

He’d always thought convertibles overrated, but now that he sat in one, hot desert breeze blowing through his hair while Jongin mouthed along to Africa, it felt nice. The breeze, not the song, because he’d come to notice Jongin’s music taste was limited to songs that were the very small intersection of 70s and 80s rock and songs popularized by memes. He rolled his eyes, smiling at Jongin smacking the steering wheel to the beat of the song. This was the kind of summer people imagined for this desolate part of the country; sun and dust and desert with the far off teeth of the Sierra Nevada on the horizon, convertibles and milkshakes in sweating cups, Kansas playing on the radio and the sun glinting off the entirety of the car. He’d thought it was old stupid American nostalgia, so he hadn’t entertained the idea of cross-country road trips or sneaking off into the desert to drink beer at night. But, but, but. But Jongin. He made all the difference, his wolfish smile and lush lips, the delicate golden topography of his hands. He was everything Kyungsoo wanted. Kyungsoo sighed, half in frustration and half in contentment.

The wind was dry and cool, sky blazing with the setting sun. Jongin stopped just off the dusty road, clambering out of the car and stretching. Kyungsoo didn’t (did _not_) look at the sliver of skin of Jongin’s back, exposed by his stretch. Instead he got out of the car, folding his arms across his chest.

“So,” he said, chewing his lip, “what are we here for?”

Jongin scoffed, gesturing at the landscape. “Don’t tell me all your writerly-ness has left you now that you’re actually out here.”

“That’s not a word,” Kyungsoo muttered, hissing when he leaned a hand against the hellish heat of the car door.

“We’re here to enjoy the sunset,” said Jongin, popping open the lid of a foam cooler to take out two bottles of cider and two bottles of water. He flicked the melted ice water at Kyungsoo.

“Fuck!” Kyungsoo hissed, wiping his cheek.

Jongin only laughed, sprinting towards the outcroppings of rocks that loomed beside the car. Kyungsoo dipped his hand in the ice water, then sprinted after Jongin, landing his frigid palm onto the back of Jongin’s neck. Jongin screamed, and Kyungsoo smiled triumphantly, until he realized Jongin was laughing. Prick.

“That actually felt nice, thank you,” Jongin said with a wink. “Come on, sit.”

Kyungsoo did, with reluctance. But in almost an instant he was about to fall on his side, an explosive row of expletives rolling from his lips.

“Wow, that was impressive,” Jongin said, eyebrows raised.

Kyungsoo gave him a dirty look, wiping the frigid condensation from his inner thigh. Jongin had pressed the cold cider to the tenderest part of Kyungsoo’s leg, flinching when Kyungsoo took the bottle roughly. But Kyungsoo shifted farther, taking a swig of cider. He was a man of grudges; his revenge could wait.

“I’ve never actually come out here to watch a sunset.”

“I know,” said Jongin.

Kyungsoo shot him a confused look, because how _could_ he know? But Jongin said nothing more, his profile aglow as he sipped his cider. Kyungsoo cursed himself; his annoyance dissipated as he watched Jongin drink, mesmerized by arch of Jongin’s neck.

“The kiln-blaze in my body,” said Jongin, closing his eyes against the glare of the sun.

“Hm?”

“The turning heaven, beautiful Signore,” Jongin continued, “you cover me with pollen.”

Kyungsoo blushed; he was thinking of Jongin, a dusting of orange on his fingertips mixing with the pearly white of his cum.

“W-where do you get all these poems from?” Kyungsoo asked in a desperate attempt to distract his (ridiculously horny) imagination.

“I’m a well read man,” Jongin said, wiggling his eyebrows. “I like to think I’m something of an intellectual.”

Kyungsoo guffawed. “Oh _really_?”

Jongin pretended offense, but even as he did he placed a cold hand on Kyungsoo’s inner thigh (and Kyungsoo thought of a palm covered in lube, the clumsy messiness of a first time; he thought of a predator’s claws sinking into virginal flesh), pulling Kyungsoo closer. And Kyungsoo stupidly complied, resting his hand on the inside of Jongin’s knee (soft skin, heated by the sun, just like the sun-baked rocks beneath them; a crevice, the bend of the knee like the bend of the river, an intimate spot of sweat and vulnerability). With this distance, or lack thereof, between them, Kyungsoo really wasn’t sure which was hotter, Jongin or the sun. Then, without warning, Jongin draped an arm around Kyungsoo. He tensed, but then relaxed, wincing only a little when he felt the wetness of Jongin’s shirt.

“You sweat a lot,” he muttered.

Jongin barked out a laugh, shaking his head to flick sweat onto Kyungsoo

“Oh, gross!” Kyungsoo tried to squirm away, but Jongin held him even closer.

“Aw, come on, it’s not like I smell,” said Jongin.

And Kyungsoo couldn’t argue with that. Jongin smelled good, _always_. Fresh lemongrass soap and the warmth of spices, held together by arid cedarwood.

“That doesn’t mean I like sweatwhatareyoudoing?” Kyungsoo rushed.

Jongin wedged his cider bottle into a crevice in the rocks, unbuttoning his shirt before he took it off. And, to make matters much _much_ worse, he uncapped his water bottle and poured it on himself.

“There, clean,” he said. “Well, clean_ish_.”

“I’m having questions about your hygiene now,” said Kyungsoo, wrinkling his nose.

“Is that the only thing you’re questioning right now?” Jongin asked, winking as he sat back.

Kyungsoo licked his lips, taking his time to look at the brown of Jongin’s nipples, the amber brushstrokes of the sun’s glow on Jongin’s abs.

“I’m questioning where you’re from,” Kyungsoo said, “and who you are.”

“I’m Jongin Kim, and I’m from here,” Jongin said, wiggling his eyebrows as he bumped his shoulder against Kyungsoo’s.

“Stop saying you’re from here!” Kyungsoo squawked.

“Fine. Tell me, where do you think I’m from?” Jongin asked.

Kyungsoo shrugged. “California?”

“_California?_” Jongin snickered. “Why Cali?

“Most grifters out here come from Cali,” said Kyungsoo.

Jongin sputtered, dissolving into giggles. “Wait, you think I’m criminal?”

Kyungsoo mustered his best glare, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Well, what _else_ am I supposed to think when you conveniently have no I.D. and a wad of cash looking to stay at a busted motel for the summer? I don’t even know if your name is actually Jongin.”

“You’re right,” Jongin said pensively, and Kyungsoo’s stomach did a nervous somersault, “my name is Joaquin.”

Kyungsoo punched Jongin’s arm with a snarl. “Asshole.”

“But I’m _your_ asshole,” Jongin cooed, and naturally Kyungsoo’s ears turned bright red. “Besides, I’ve been traveling West, which means not California.”

“That only leaves the rest of the country,” Kyungsoo said flatly.

“A Cali grifter doesn’t reveal his secrets,” Jongin said, tapping his temple with a raised eyebrow.

Kyungsoo rolled his eyes, jaw tight, but Jongin was wiggling his eyebrows and his nose was scrunched, the cutest of shit-eating grins on his lips. Kyungsoo definitely hated him (no, he definitely didn’t).

Silence settled in between them, radiant with the ever-reddening sky. It was a comfortable silence (which Kyungsoo was not used to, because he was awkward by nature — though not nearly as awkward as Antoine and for that he was immensely grateful). It was a silence made heavier by the vast nothing that stretched out around them, broken by the occasional mound of beaten stones (like the one they sat on) and the ever darkening silhouette of the mountains, which seemed much closer than he thought them to be. The town broke the horizon behind them, but Kyungsoo didn’t exactly care for what lay behind him at the moment, not when he was being lulled to a gentle, sleepy peace by the warmth of the sun and the warmth of Jongin, the promise of a cool night already teasing the breeze that came from behind.

Jongin started to sing, soft at first. Kyungsoo looked up at the encroaching cobalt of the crepuscular sky, then down at the condensation on Jongin’s fingers, catching the last light of the sun.

“What are you singing?” he asked, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“A thousand years,” Jongin sang, looking at the twinkle of the first stars of the night, “lost in the blink of an eye.”

“Never heard of it,” Kyungsoo grumbled.

Jongin chuckled, snaking his arm around Kyungsoo again to touch the vulnerable softness of Kyungsoo’s side. “The sky keeps turning, the world will come crumbling down, in a thousand years.”

And Kyungsoo actually saw the sky turn, the dizzying, twinkling spin interrupted by a canyon dissolving into rolling boulders. He gritted out a “fuck,” flailing when he almost fell back. He was most _definitely_ losing it.

Jongin gave him a hurt look.

“What?” Kyungsoo grumbled.

“You elbowed me,” Jongin said with a sniff.

“Sorry,” Kyungsoo said, though he was still too freaked out by the sudden bout of dizziness to really mean it. “We should probably head back.”

Jongin was quiet, and for a second Kyungsoo thought he was being ignored. But Jongin was looking at him in his intense way, pensive and beautiful. Kyungsoo met his eyes, licking his lips because Jongin still made him nervous. He leaned in a little closer, and Kyungsoo sucked in his breath, eyes wide. Was Jongin going to kiss him? He should’ve scoffed at the idea, because Jongin was otherworldly, and Kyungsoo…wasn’t; and yet he suddenly wanted to know what Jongin tasted like, if his lips would taste of spiced honey with hints of blood orange. And then he blushed, ashamed of that sudden rush of desire because he was being stupid.

“Do you really want to go back?” Jongin asked.

Kyungsoo wasn’t sure Jongin was talking about the motel, but the promise of freedom as he sat in the vast dusty bowl of the desert felt far too intimidating too even hint at. He felt tiny, and the small comfort of his apartment and the sameness of his days tugged at his heart. No, he wasn’t ready for this yet.

“It’s getting late,” he whispered, unable to bring himself to speak any louder. He winced at the sound of his voice, breaking that brittle silence.

But Jongin only smiled, a soft warm smile that made Kyungsoo want to burrow himself in Jongin’s chest.

“Okay,” said Jongin.

With that, they gathered up the bottles and trudged back to the car. Jongin fought to untangle his shirt, but gave up with a huff and threw the bundled cloth into the car. Kyungsoo was rooted to the spot, standing next to the car but frozen as the last sliver of sun crowned the peaks.

“What’s wrong?” Jongin asked.

Kyungsoo didn’t answer; instead he hugged Jongin, his ears burning as his cheek pressed against the hot bare skin of Jongin’s chest, but when Jongin returned the embrace his embarrassment faded a little and it felt right. It was the comfort he needed, enough to chase the cold of the desert away.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

He thought he heard Jongin say, “Anything for you,” but Jongin’s voice was muffled. He forced his heart to behave, tamping down its excited flutters as he pulled away from Jongin’s arms.

“Don’t fall asleep on me on the way back,” Jongin teased, softening the joke with a lopsided grin as he opened the door for Kyungsoo.

Kyungsoo grunted in response, hiding his shy smile from the encroaching night.

—

_If the desert had a son, it would be him. He had the desert’s sharp edges, his jaw like the cutting cold of night. He had the desert’s heat, his eyes fierce as the afternoon sun. He had the desert’s intensity, his kiss as devastatingly satiating as a sudden downpour, which left me wanting more, always more._

“Writer’s block gone for now?” Jongin’s asked, his voice startling Kyungsoo.

“No? Yes. What did you ask?” Kyungsoo asked, scowling when Jongin laughed.

“I asked if your writer’s block was gone,” he purred, leaning against the counter. Kyungsoo tried not to get distracted by the solid warmth of Jongin’s golden skin against the worn wooden grains of the edge of the countertop.

“Mostly,” Kyungsoo said, “at least for now.”

Jongin reached behind the counter and squeezed Kyungsoo’s hand, the warmth of his hand like the vast desert sky, prickling with anticipation at the coming rain. He rubbed at the spot Jongin touched, shivering, then blurted, “What are you?”

Jongin stared at him for a bit, pensive and calculating. Then he was leaning forward, closer and closer until his nose was brushing against Kyungsoo’s, the zing of a cold fat raindrop. Kyungsoo gasped, eyelashes fluttering when Jongin paused. He was waiting, letting Kyungsoo decide. So Kyungsoo decided, closing the gap between their lips.

He tasted like the metallic tang of lightning in a brewing thunderstorm, the crackling static of the calm before a storm, sweet honey spurting onto his tongue, the thirst of the cracked earth when the first drop of rain fell. A brush of Jongin’s fingertips against his neck made him shiver, both the hare trembling with fear and the hawk’s blinding hunger. He curled his fingers on the countertop, wishing he could sink his nails into Jongin’s sun-warmed back, wishing he could taste the salt of Jongin, wishing Jongin would pin him to the desert scrub and fuck him until even the earth quaked from Jongin’s thrusts.

But then the kiss was over. Jongin pulled away with a soft smile, which grew when Kyungsoo chased after his lips. He stroked Kyungsoo’s cheek, the teasing tension of storm clouds above parched earth.

It took a few breaths for Kyungsoo to calm down, to bring back the scattered parts of himself. Jongin’s smile never faded, patient as awe twinkled in Kyungsoo’s eyes, but the awe soon turned to confusion, and just a little bit of fear.

“What the fuck?”

Jongin said nothing, hiding his bashful smile by bowing his head.

“How the fuck does that answer anything?” Kyungsoo squeaked.

But Jongin still didn’t speak, walking backwards as he stepped away from the counter.

“Jongin, you know I can’t leave this counter until one!” Kyungsoo hissed, gripping the pink-flecked granite of the counter until his knuckles turned white.

But Jongin, smug and radiant, just winked and left.

—

A storm brewed on the horizon, turbulent deep gray crowning the far off Sierra Nevada. Jongin stood at the center of the roof, hair escaping his loose braid to dance in the cool storm breeze. Kyungsoo started at the sight of him, but squared his shoulders, refusing to give up his fifteen minutes of fresh air just because Jongin was there. He stomped over to Jongin’s side and frowned up at Jongin’s serene face.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Kyungsoo said, fighting to keep his voice level.

“We just haven’t coincided,” Jongin said, his voice as serene as his smile.

“Don’t.”

“You seemed like you needed space,” Jongin said, his voice softer now.

That soothed Kyungsoo’s frenzied thoughts a little, but he cursed under his breath. He couldn’t lose focus now. Kyungsoo growled, balling his fists. “What the fuck?”

Jongin raised an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“What the fuck?! The kiss! The thing you did where it was not a normal kiss! What was that?” Kyungsoo squawked.

“I just wanted to kiss you,” Jongin said, his voice and his eyes so soft it made the heat of anger leave Kyungsoo. Some, not all.

“Th-that doesn’t explain why I felt all that.”

“All what?” Jongin asked.

Kyungsoo swallowed hard. What if he’d been making it up? What if Jongin was really just a normal (albeit inhumanly hot) guy, and Kyungsoo had hallucinated the effects?

“Th-the thunderstorm-y stuff,” Kyungsoo said, his voice small, “and the thirst?”

Jongin smiled and said, “The desert can’t talk back, but I believe it breathes instead, breathes vivid when the water wants it the water can’t wait and it breathes back. Sna—”

“Snake by Katie Peterson, yes I know,” Kyungsoo huffed. “What does that have to do with the kiss?”

“The other side is not land, but soft rice steaming and ready,” Jongin said, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes with a satisfied smile when the storm clouds rumbled. “Take a spoonful of me.”

“What?” Kyungsoo asked, nearly snarling.

“Rice and rain, Robin Gow,” he said, and his nonchalance made Kyungsoo more irritated.

“That still doesn’t explain anything,” Kyungsoo huffed, his frustration returning with full force, but as he said that Jongin took a step closer, his nose to Kyungsoo’s cheek, a hand resting on Kyungsoo’s waist.

“I’m thinking of lying in a rain puddle with you,” Jongin whispered, his breath puffing against Kyungsoo’s neck. “and falling apart into a palm full of cooked rice.”

“I d-don’t—” he began, but the moment he looked up at the roiling gray clouds above him, a drop splashed against his cheek. And it was in that same moment that Jongin kissed his neck, lips burning against his cool skin. 

He kissed Jongin, deep and messy as the rain drenched them, but he didn’t care. He wanted all of Jongin. With a little difficulty (he refused to stop drinking Jongin in), he popped the button of Jongin’s jeans open, pulling the zipper down before blindly groping. Jongin whimpered into their kiss, shifting his hips forward to meet Kyungsoo’s searching hands. Yet, Kyungsoo wanted to touch him with nothing in between, no scrap of fabric to inhibit skin on skin, so he pulled the waistband of Jongin’s underwear down enough to expose the head of Jongin’s half-hard dick. Jongin pulled away from their kiss, incredulity in his eyes.

“W-we’re on the roof,” he said with a giggle.

Kyungsoo pulled him closer, dragging his fingertips across the head as he nipped at Jongin’s bottom lip.

“No one comes up here,” he said, his voice husky.

Jongin guffawed, hissing when Kyungsoo thumbed at the slit.

“I think it might be nicer if we went to my room,” he hissed, licking his lips.

“But that means we have to stop,” Kyungsoo whined.

Jongin laughed, but stepped back, tucking himself back into his underwear.

“The faster we get down there the faster we can continue,” Jongin said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Kyungsoo agreed, but he couldn’t bring himself to say so when Jongin looked so hot. He was mesmerized. The rain had soaked through the white of his tank top, nipples pert against the wet fabric, while the sleeves of his unbuttoned flannel shirt contoured the bulge of his biceps. His hair was half out of its ponytail, plastered along his neck, dripping down his forehead, and combined with Jongin’s kiss-swollen lips and the glint of lust in his eyes, Kyungsoo was spellbound.

With a chuckle, Jongin took his hand. “We have to walk to do that,” he said with a cheeky smile.

Kyungsoo stumbled into motion, following Jongin down the stairs, his heart galloping in the sudden quiet of the staircase. They emerged into the hallway, the carpet muffling their footsteps, but he was focused on the rain anyway, acutely aware of the plink and splash of drops on the roof, and of his hand in Jongin’s. The taller fumbled with his pocket, cursing when the key card refused to slip out of the wet fabric. Kyungsoo plucked it out with a giggle and opened the door, pulling Jongin inside.

It was instant; Jongin pulled Kyungsoo close, hands on Kyungsoo’s hips as they kissed, a frantic urgency to their touches. Kyungsoo snaked his hands between them, undoing his own button and zipper before he groped at Jongin’s pants. With a surprised moan, muffled against Jongin’s lips, he traced his fingers against the open zipper; he hadn’t noticed Jongin hadn’t zipped up again. He pulled Jongin’s pants and underwear down, hesitant as he broke their kiss. He wasn’t sure where his timidity went, the only vestige of it making his ears burn as he traced the slit of Jongin’s head with his fingertips. The little hiccup of inhalation from Jongin made him bolder, so he took Jongin’s dick in his hand, a few experimental, slow strokes that made Jongin laugh breathily.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Jongin asked.

“Of course,” Kyungsoo huffed, but his boldness faltered a little at the unabashed lust in Jongin’s eyes. “Please.”

Jongin smiled and pulled Kyungsoo’s pants down, palming the tent of Kyungsoo’s boxer briefs before slipping his hands into them. Kyungsoo blushed, forehead falling to meet Jongin’s collarbones as he sighed. And because he wasn’t cruel, he stroked Jongin’s dick, thumbing the slit before Jongin pulled them apart.

“We should probably put these clothes to dry,” Jongin murmured.

“I’ll just wash them later,” Kyungsoo sniffed. He tugged at Jongin’s flannel shirt, sucking his teeth when the sopping fabric hardly budged. Jongin giggled.

“How about we undress slowly?”

Kyungsoo made a face, but complied. He peeled the shirts off of Jongin, biting his lip in appreciation. Jongin was still slick with rain, glistening the low light of the room; he couldn’t help but run his fingers over Jongin’s chest, pausing to tease his left nipple. Jongin gave him a toothy smile, scrunching his nose when Kyungsoo pinched his nipple.

“Be nice,” he whined, pulling Kyungsoo in for an embrace.

“I can’t take off my shirt if we’re this close,” Kyungsoo said under his breath.

Jongin laughed, grazing his teeth along the soft dip of Kyungsoo’s neck. He shivered. “So impatient,” Jongin murmured.

Kyungsoo gulped. He _was_ impatient. He wanted to feel bare skin, and the scratchy wetness of his t-shirt was in the way, but Jongin liked to take his time, so he only glared at the curve of Jongin’s neck.

Jongin pressed a kiss just under Kyungsoo’s ear. “Fine, arms up.”

Kyungsoo blushed, giggling when Jongin pulled the shirt off. He shivered, the cold air washing over his damp skin, but Jongin fixed that. The warmth of Jongin’s arms around him, their chests touching, Kyungsoo’s cold skin against Jongin’s hot skin, made Kyungsoo melt. He sighed, pressing his cheek against the curve of Jongin’s pec, arms wrapped around Jongin’s middle. This closeness was intoxicating, and when Jongin shifted, their dicks jostled against each other, the shock of unexpected pleasure making them both suck in their breath. Kyungsoo turned his cheek to say something, but Jongin’s lips on his neck, trailing down to his shoulder, made his brain short-circuit.

“Bed,” he managed to say, giggling when Jongin paused and gave him a goofy, confused look. “Wouldn’t it be better?”

Jongin shifted, intentional as their dicks brushed against each other, and grinned.

“You’re absolutely right.”

Kyungsoo stumbled back onto the bed, kicking his feet up for Jongin to pull his pants off the rest of the way. Kyungsoo shivered again, and the cold felt vast, like he was sitting in the middle of the desert at midnight. But, Jongin’s nakedness, now that the other had shed his pants, distracted him easily enough. The leanness of his legs, the swell and dip of his arms, the deep pink of the head of Jongin’s dick. Yeah, Kyungsoo was the luckiest twink on this earth. He blushed when he realized Jongin was staring back, but they both giggled.

“Lie down,” Jongin said, bracketing Kyungsoo’s knees with his own legs.

Kyungsoo gripped Jongin’s hips, pressing his lips to the head of Jongin’s dick, but decided against it and sat back, scooting his way to the middle of the bed. Jongin pouted but followed, sitting on his ankles as he waited for Kyungsoo to lie down.

His head bounced against the pillow, but it was the sight of the mirrors on the ceiling that made him gasp. Jongin met his eyes in the reflection with a warm smile before he crawled over, straddling Kyungsoo’s thighs. Their balls were pressed together, which made Kyungsoo blush, but then Jongin was taking both their dicks into his hands and stroking them, heads pressed together as his fingers squeezed and stroked. Kyungsoo tried not to twitch, but the pleasure made him, not nearly enough for him to enjoy it but enough to make his dick leak string of precum.

Then he felt Jongin’s breath on his nipple, hissing when the other teased it with his tongue. But before he could twine his fingers in Jongin’s hair, he’d moved to Kyungsoo’s left nipple, sucking it until Kyungsoo was panting. He popped off, meeting Kyungsoo’s lips in a deep kiss. Jongin propped himself on his forearms and lowered himself onto Kyungsoo, their dicks trapped between them; he started to move, a slip and slide of his hips that rubbed their dicks against each other, against the hard muscle and soft skin of Jongin’s abs, their nipples pert.

At first Kyungsoo couldn’t move, his breath stuttering at the friction. The ridge of his head grazed against the ridge of Jongin’s, and Kyungsoo could only moan, hands moving up to Jongin’s biceps to cling on for dear life. Jongin kissed him, and Kyungsoo felt like a sieve; the water that was Jongin slipped right through him, leaving him just as thirsty for Jongin’s taste.

Jongin was panting now, puffs of breath tickling Kyungsoo’s neck. Kyungsoo scrunched his nose, closing his eyes as the scent of sex mixed with Jongin’s perfume. Precum slicked their stomachs, and Jongin’s skin was dewy with sweat despite the sheet of cold air from the AC. Kyungsoo’s grip on Jongin’s biceps grew tighter; he sucked in his breath and started to move his hips to meet Jongin’s, a seesaw of skin on skin, sweat and sex and gentle friction. Jongin’s balls dragged across his own, soft squeezing against each other each time Kyungsoo canted his hips up.

Jongin groaned, his fingers gouging the mattress as his mouth fell open. Hot cum spurted onto Kyungsoo’s stomach, and he felt the throb of Jongin’s dick against his. He bit his lip, screwing his eyes shut as his own orgasm coursed through him, a tide of cum to meet the mess Jongin had already made. And Jongin kept the momentum going, rubbing their dicks together, their cum mixing and sticking to their stomachs, until they were both spent. With a sigh, Jongin pressed a sloppy kiss to Kyungsoo’s cheek; Kyungsoo turned to meet Jongin’s lips, giggling when the kiss was too sloppy for them to continue.

“Told you it would be better on my bed,” Jongin whispered.

“I don’t know, I kinda wanted to cum in the rain,” Kyungsoo half-joked.

Jongin nuzzled his cheek. “We have all summer for that.”

Except they kind of didn’t. It was already nearing August, and it was a _desert_ after all. Rain wasn’t exactly a common occurrence. Kyungsoo’s heart did an unpleasant somersault; he didn’t want to think about the day Jongin would leave. Especially not now, when they were covered in each other’s cum and Jongin was mapping Kyungsoo’s shoulders with smooches. He shoved those thoughts to the back of his mind, closing his eyes to revel in the softness of Jongin’s fingers as he caressed Kyungsoo’s wrist, and drifted off to sleep.

—

He crossed the sentence out again, sighing. _His skin is molten gold, sucking up the brilliance of the sun. The sun thinks it’s not fair, so it tries to hide its face, but he grows all the brighter for it._ Kyungsoo groaned, digging the tip of his pen into the corner of the page.

“Writing not going so well?” Jongin’s voice cut through his distress, and his heart skipped a beat without his permission. It had only been two days since he’d been in Jongin’s room and Kyungsoo’s heart still fluttered at the sight of the taller.

“Uh,” Kyungsoo eloquently replied.

“Is that a good _uh_ or a bad _uh_?” Jongin asked.

“Don’t tease me,” Kyungsoo whined. He tossed the pen cap at Jongin, who only snickered. “It’s a ‘you caught me off guard’ _uh_.”

“Hm,” Jongin propped his elbow on the counter, chin cradled in his hand. “So, is it going well or not?”

Kyungsoo looked back down at his notebook. “It’s…corny.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” said Jongin.

“No I’m not,” Kyungsoo sniffed. “You haven’t even read it.”

“Can I?” Jongin asked, extending his hand.

“NO!” Kyungsoo jerked back, nearly falling off his chair. His notebook slipped from his hands anyway, landing on the tile with a muffled thump.

Jongin snorted, waiting with raised eyebrows as Kyungsoo bent to pick up his notebook. He shouldn’t have reacted so strongly, but he really was _not_ ready for Jongin to read this. Not now, but probably not ever.

“Well, I’m going to the plaza,” Jongin finally said when Kyungsoo had smoothed the bent corners of his notebook. “Want anything?”

“Talent,” Kyungsoo grumbled.

“Mm, I heard they’re fresh out because you already bought all of it,” Jongin joked, smiling when Kyungsoo rolled his eyes.

“Cornball,” he mumbled, unable to help his smile.

“Guess we were meant for each other then,” Jongin said, leaning over the counter to press a wet kiss to Kyungsoo’s nose. “See ya in a bit.”

Kyungsoo waved belatedly, too frazzled by Jongin’s comment (and kiss) to react on time.

The motel’s desk closed earlier in August, which meant Kyungsoo was shutting down and locking up when the sun was still quite high in the sky. The fan was working overtime, whirring pathetically to beat the late summer heat, but it didn’t make much of a difference. He thought about leaving without checking the first floor, but something drew him over to the teal sofas of the waiting area.

Jongin’s marvelous legs were on display, his feet propped on the egg chair. He wore a white sleeveless shirt, the hard curve of his biceps stark against the light fabric, and tennis shorts that barely reached mid thigh. Kyungsoo swallowed hard. Jongin’s eyes were closed, but he smiled as soon as Kyungsoo stepped into the waiting area.

“I have hard lemonade today,” he chirped, cracking one lazy eye open.

“I’m trying to go home early, for once,” Kyungsoo groaned.

But that was kind of a fib, because he preferred Jongin’s company to the solitude of his aparment. And there was also the fact that he was too much of a sucker for Jongin’s pout for him to turn the other down. He stomped his way over to Jongin’s side, hands on his hips, and Jongin patted his lap.

“Sit.”

“On your lap?” Kyungsoo spluttered. He couldn’t do that; he couldn’t even think of Jongin’s crotch without immediately thinking of Jongin’s hard dick, leaking and aching to be touched. Yeah, no. Especially not in those sinful shorts.

“Not if you don’t want to,” Jongin said, but Kyungsoo didn’t need to look at him to know that Jongin had guessed Kyungsoo’s exact train of thought. Jackass.

Kyungsoo skirted the egg chair and grabbed a Mike’s Hard from the fridge, then settled into the corner of the sofa with his notebook and favorite pen. Just as he snapped open the can, he squeaked. Jongin had picked up his feet, pulling him until Kyungsoo’s legs were resting across Jongin’s lap. Kyungsoo’s bare legs on Jongin’s bare lap.

“A little warning, next time!” Kyungsoo squawked, wiping the lemonade from his upper lip.

“Watch out, I’m going to move you,” Jongin said with a wink.

“This almost went up my nose!” Kyungsoo grumbled.

“Well, most of our sense of taste comes from our noses,” Jongin said, tapping the side of his nose.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Kyungsoo said under his breath.

Jongin giggled, one hand slipping up Kyungsoo’s shorts to rest on Kyungsoo’s inner thigh. Kyungsoo gulped, but when Jongin did nothing else he tried to shrug it off, cracking his notebook open.

And started writing about Jongin. He couldn’t _not_. He scrawled a paragraph, then paused, looking over at Jongin’s languid form. The taller was reading a book of erotic poems by e.e. cummings, resting it on Kyungsoo’s knees; his other hand still guarded the tender part of Kyungsoo’s thigh. Kyungsoo gulped, then wrote _The golden marble of his skin, the canyons and hollows formed by his veins._ An homage to Jongin’s hands, because he loved them so much.

He looked over at Jongin again, at the pattern of light that looked like sun underwater, courtesy of a tacky old lamp. It painted bands down his cheek, his nose, his full lips that were pensively pursed. Kyungsoo sighed, putting his pen to the page to write _He turns, the sun illuminating the uneven slope of his nose; it reminds me of the stripes of sandstone of Antelope Canyon, undulations of red and orange over the rounded ridges of rock._ Maybe, just maybe, it was time to admit he was completely smitten.

But there was also the thought that kept nagging him, poking its ugly, annoying head whenever Kyungsoo was ready to admit his crush.

“You never told me,” he murmured.

Jongin looked up from his book, brow furrowed. “Hm?”

“You never told me why the kiss felt like that. And why I feel…_things_ when you touch me,” Kyungsoo said, clearing his throat.

“Didn’t I?”

Kyungsoo scoffed. “You definitely did _not_. You kissed me and we went to your room and we—” He stopped, blushing.

“‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said the Lady of Shalott,” Jongin said.

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo gritted through his teeth. “Don’t start again.”

Jongin was quiet, gnawing at his lip. Kyungsoo waited, worrying the worn corner of his notebook. He took in the sharpness of Jongin’s jaw, the way his eyelashes were highlighted by the sunlight that bounced off the lobby floor, the quietly anxious crease of his eyebrows.

Jongin opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, back to biting his lip. Kyungsoo set his jaw, closing his notebook. It hurt, far more than he thought it would, for Jongin to hold back. _Especially_ after the evening in Jongin’s room. They’d been more intimate than Kyungsoo had ever been with anyone; that should’ve counted for something, shouldn’t it? But they were here, dancing around the weirdness, and it hurt. He hooked the pen onto the cover of his notebook and stood, cursing when the condensation of the can dripped onto his shin.

“Kyungsoo—”

“Don’t bother,” Kyungsoo snapped.

He forced himself to walk out of the motel, unwilling to let himself look back; if he saw Jongin his resolve would splinter. He made it to his car, tossing the notebook into the passenger’s seat (and the can into the cupholder) before he let his forehead rest against the steering wheel. He had half a mind to tear up all the pages in his notebook; instead he put the key in the ignition and drove home.

—

A familiar scene. The width of Jongin’s magnificent back, the statuesque gold of his neck and shoulders exposed by his loose shirt, the stretch of dusty earth and parched tangled shrubs, the loom of the mountains in the distance.

Kyungsoo gritted his teeth, stomping over to Jongin’s side.

“This time, I’m not leaving until I get an answer,” he snarled.

Jongin looked just a little dejected, but mostly like his usual unbothered self, looking at Kyungsoo out of the corner of his eye. Then he smiled, feline and entirely too smug for Kyungsoo’s temper, the little bit of sadness gone.

“Some things can’t be answered with words,” Jongin murmured, bumping his nose against Kyungsoo’s cheek.

And Kyungsoo couldn’t help but blush, thinking of Jongin’s blissed out face above him as they both came on Kyungsoo’s stomach.

“Well _I_ need it to be answered in words,” he 

Jongin chuckled. “Okay. ’Twas brilig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“Exactly,” Jongin teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

Kyungsoo scowled, punching Jongin’s arm. “I’m being serious, you asshole.”

“I am, too, peach,” Jongin said, rubbing his arm. “Besides, I’m not the writer here.”

“Oh, don’t start,” Kyungsoo spat.

“Start what?” Jongin asked. “I’m only here to inspire you, but _you_ have to find the words.”

“Inspire me? Wait, what does that mean you’re only here for that?” Kyungsoo tripped over Jongin’s feet then straightened himself as much as he could. Still, his nose only grazed Jongin’s chin. “Explain. Now.”

“Okay,” Jongin said with a sultry smile. He cupped Kyungsoo’s cheeks, pressing feather-soft kisses to his cheeks, then to his nose, and finally to his lips. “Can’t promise you’ll understand any more than you did before.”

“What?” Kyungsoo whispered, temporarily distracted by the sweetness of Jongin’s lips.

But then— oh. A drizzle began to fall, and Jongin looked like molten gold, like luscious honey. Kyungsoo wanted to taste him; he wanted to sink his teeth into the breadth of Jongin’s shoulder. He wanted to make Jongin moan again, eyes closed in pleasure, strands of hair sticking to his forehead and neck.

“Our sudden wet bodies, firm swelling divested finally of shirts and trousers,” Jongin murmured, pausing to give Kyungsoo a deep kiss, a kiss that tasted of virgin groundwater and the ever-present sweetness of smoky honey. “Left beside turbid footprints on the tiled floor.” He moved down to Kyungsoo’s neck, lavish, wet kisses that reminded Kyungsoo of the humidity and the musk of their frantic frotting that had lingered in Jongin’s room for days. He bared his neck, eyes half-closed in pleasure. “This tongue—” a pause for Jongin to lick the parted seam of Kyungsoo’s lips, and Kyungsoo shuddered at the warm wetness, parting his lips further to let Jongin kiss him. It was a messy kiss, too much tongue, but Kyungsoo’s dick still twitched. “This tongue, these lips the lightning over the unchartered landscape of your thigh.” He snaked his fingers down, dragging his fingertips up the back of Kyungsoo’s thigh and Kyungsoo thanked all the things good in the universe that he’d decided to wear shorts.

“Wh-who wrote that?” He asked, his breath hitching when Jongin slid his fingers into Kyungsoo’s underwear, fingertips pressing into the soft flesh of his asscheek. He swore he caught a whiff of the perfume of a bruised peach, releasing its heavy fragrance 

“Roberto Tejada,” Jongin mumbled into Kyungsoo’s collarbones. “Still Life.”

“Thirsty,” Kyungsoo moaned. “I’ll suck the juice from it. From you.”

Jongin dug his fingers harder into Kyungsoo’s asscheek, bumping his nose against Kyungsoo’s.

“Can’t promise I’ll taste like oranges,” said Jongin. “Unless you want me to, I guess.”

“That doesn’t make sense?” Kyungsoo said, his breath hitching.

“Does it have to?” Jongin asked, brushing his lips against Kyungsoo’s.

Kyungsoo’s answer was to suck on Jongin’s bottom lip, sinking his teeth into the fullness.

“Ss— Ah!” Jongin pulled away, licking his swelling lip. “Gentle, Soo.”

“Sorry, I got carried away,” Kyungsoo said softly, cupping Jongin’s cheek in his hand.

“I can return the favor,” Jongin purred.

“Really?” Kyungsoo asked, entirely breathless. He blushed, hating how wanton that sounded, but Jongin was stepping back, unentangling himself from their embrace, so he didn’t have much time to dwell on the tiny bit of shame that reddened his ears.

“Come.”

“It’s gonna take a little more than that for me to come right this instant,” Kyungsoo joked, swallowing hard.

Jongin threw back his head and laughed. “I meant come with me to my room, you dork. So we can have _comfortable_ sex.”

“Oh, right,” Kyungsoo guffawed, his ears hot as Jongin tugged him down the stairs. It felt familiar, the rush of their muffled steps, the drumming of his heart and of the rain against the roof, washing the desert dust off the windows in the hall. This time, Jongin slipped the key card out with ease, pulling Kyungsoo into the cool gloom. They fumbled for the lights, which was difficult only because Jongin had pulled him in for a kiss again, teeth clacking.

“Ow,” Kyungsoo guffawed, but he dove for another kiss anyway, fingers cupping Jongin’s cheeks.

Intoxicating. That was all Kyungsoo’s brain could conjure, because for the moment words escaped him. The intoxicating sweetness of Jongin’s lips, honey and rain and citrus and spices; the intoxicating softness of his lips, the intoxicating press of his wet tongue against Kyungsoo’s; the intoxicating warmth of Jongin’s body pressed against his; the intoxicating jolt of Jongin’s hand as it trailed up Kyungsoo’s back.

“I want to see you,” Jongin said between kisses.

“I’m right here.”

“I meant naked,” Jongin said, smacking Kyungsoo’s ass when the smaller giggled.

“I want to touch you,” Kyungsoo whispered, “I want you to touch me. I want you.”

With that he stepped back, blushing at the unabashed desire in Jongin’s eyes (and the suffused warmth of love, if he dared call it that; but the tenderness with which Jongin was looking at him couldn’t be anything else, could it?) He sat on Jongin’s bed, gripping the edge of the mattress as Jongin took off his shirt. He watched with parted lips, dark stars on the honey of Jongin’s abs as he undressed.

“Now it’s your turn to striptease,” Jongin joked, taking Kyungsoo’s wrists in his hands to pull him up, but Kyungsoo didn’t stand.

“Wait,” Kyungsoo said, tugging Jongin close.

Jongin blushed, but didn’t protest. He watched Kyungsoo run fingertips in his pubes, then pull his foreskin back. Kyungsoo looked up at Jongin through his lashes, his cheeks warm as he parted his lips to kiss the tip of Jongin’s dick. Jongin sucked in his breath, giggling when Kyungsoo slurped loudly. Kyungsoo blushed, but kept sucking the head, stroking Jongin’s hipbones with his thumbs. He closed his eyes; he wanted to focus on the other senses, on the soft scent of lemongrass soap, the tenuous salt and hint of honey sweetness of Jongin’s precum, the sponginess of the head and the way Jongin shivered when Kyungsoo ran his tongue along the ridge. Saliva coated his bottom lip, dripped onto his chin, mixed with Jongin’s precum, a wet mess, but he didn’t mind much. Not even when he popped off with a wet suck, strings of precum and spit trailing from Kyungsoo’s swollen lips to Jongin’s swollen dick.

“I’m so torn,” Jongin said breathlessly.

“Hm?”

“I want you to keep sucking, but— fuck,” he hissed, moaning when Kyungsoo started to suck him off again. “But I want to cum in your ass, Kyungsoo.”

And now Kyungsoo was torn too. He wanted to taste Jongin (“into me, rich and thick//spurted in jet after jet” as Auden wrote), but he also couldn’t resist the thought of Jongin fucking him. So, with great reluctance, he gave Jongin one last, slow, indulging suck, tonguing the slit before giving the head an open-mouthed kiss. Jongin was on him in an instant, tasting himself on Kyungsoo’s tongue.

“Touch me,” Kyungsoo finally managed to say, fingers roaming the expanse of Jongin’s lower back.

“I have to get you naked first,” Jongin said with a giggle, pulling Kyungsoo up.

And he let himself be undressed. His shirt knocked his glasses askew, which made them both giggle, but Jongin took them off before they fell and placed them on the bedside table. Then came the shorts, and at last Kyungsoo’s underwear. Jongin stroked Kyungsoo’s half-hard dick, a sultry smile on his lips when Kyungsoo gasped.

“Why so velvety, why so voluptuous heavy?” Jongin said, moving his hands to knead Kyungsoo’s ass, and Kyungsoo swore a purr vibrated through Jongin’s chest.

“Ever since we—” Kyungsoo paused, wrapping his arms around Jongin’s neck, “ever since that afternoon I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I fingered myself thinking of you—”

The brush of Jongin’s finger against Kyungsoo’s hole made him stop, shivering when Jongin touched him again.

“Have you?” Jongin said, and Kyungsoo could hear the smugness in his voice.

To distract himself from the heat that was creeping up his neck, Kyungsoo touched Jongin. First he roamed, mapping the broad sea of Jongin’s back with his fingertips. Then, because Jongin kept teasing his hole, he snaked his hands between them, massaging the head of Jongin’s dick.

“Finger me already, for fuck’s sake,” Kyungsoo huffed, moving his hands to Jongin’s balls when the other began to knead his asscheeks.

“So impatient, peach,” Jongin teased, but he relented, guiding Kyungsoo to the bed.

He lay on the bed, holding his thighs apart while Jongin got the lube. Then Jongin was sitting between Kyungsoo’s parted legs, drinking in Kyungsoo’s vulnerability with his eyes, with soft drags of his fingertips. He gulped, feeling far too exposed under Jongin’s hungry gaze, but before he could say anything Jongin bent over, pressing kitten licks to the underside of Kyungsoo’s right thigh. Kyungsoo sucked in his breath then bit his lip, moaning when Jongin moved down to lap at his hole.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, his head falling back onto the pillow when Jongin teased him with a pointed tongue. But before he could relish in the sensation of Jongin’s tongue, the other sat up, rubbing Kyungsoo’s hole with his fingertip before pressing the finger in til the second knuckle. Kyungsoo closed his eyes and scrunched his nose, licking his lips when Jongin started to move. He’d fingered himself before; hell, he had a dildo he used every once in a while, but Jongin’s fingers were different, gentle but precise, already teasing the bundle of nerves that made Kyungsoo whimper. It was static shock, little bursts that left him on edge, anticipating the next one.

“More?” Jongin asked, circling Kyungsoo’s hole again.

Kyungsoo could only nod in response, eyes closed as Jongin pressed two fingers into him. His breath hitched, brow furrowed as Jongin stretched and teased him, toying with Kyungsoo’s nipples with his other hand. Precum wove across his stomach, a spiderweb glistening with dew as his dick leaked in pleasure. Jongin was fucking him with three fingers now, and he bent to bite the inside of Kyungsoo’s thigh, sucking a hickey on the soft pulp.

Sweat shone on Jongin’s forehead, his chest, gossamer gold. Kyungsoo wanted to lick him, but he couldn’t bring himself to sit up enough to reach Jongin, not when his thighs were trembling from Jongin’s ministrations. Instead, he whimpered, “All of you. Please.”

Jongin cocked his head, lips parted as he took in the sight of Kyungsoo. He was pretty sure he already looked like a wreck, lips swollen from biting them, neck and cheeks and ears flushed, but Jongin was looking at him like he was the most entrancing person in the world. Kyungsoo’s cheeks grew hotter.

Jongin leaned down to kiss him, their swollen dicks brushing together, and Kyungsoo hissed. Jongin stroked him, rubbing their dicks together before he moved back, one last kiss on Kyungsoo’s bottom lip. He poured lube on his hand, spreading it on his dick, and Kyungsoo watched him with glossy eyes. The taller was so gentle now, adjusting Kyungsoo’s thighs, thumb dragging across the rim of Kyungsoo’s hole before he pressed in. Kyungsoo sucked in his breath, gripping Jongin’s biceps so tight the other hissed.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

Kyungsoo wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Feels different from a dildo.”

Jongin laughed. “In a good way?”

“Of course,” Kyungsoo huffed, bringing Jongin in for a kiss. They stayed like this for a moment, lazy, wet kissing until Kyungsoo’s body ached to be fucked. He nibbled on Jongin’s lip, voice breathy as he said, “Move.”

Jongin settled himself down, forearms close to Kyungsoo’s shoulders before he started to move. The first thrust was proper lightning, electrifying pleasure that was like the bolt hitting a dry tree and like the increasing pressure of rumbles of thunder that did not release water from their heavy clouds. And heavy he felt, pinned under the sensuous dense heat of Jongin’s body, pinned against Jongin’s lips as they tasted each other, pinned to the bed by Jongin’s thrusts, a small quake radiating from the epicenter of their love. Yeah, love. Well, maybe it was just the fog of being fucked so well, but Kyungsoo couldn’t _not _think he was in love.

His nerves were a lattice of pulsing pleasure. He knew this was what the desert felt each time it rained. Each droplet was one of Jongin’s thrusts, overwhelming in its intensity, yet a single drop, a single thrust, never near enough to satiate him. But a storm, torrential rain, that was Jongin fucking him. 

Kyungsoo arched his back, neck exposed for Jongin’s teeth to sink in. Jongin dragged his nails down Kyungsoo’s thighs, lapping at the teeth marks on Kyungsoo’s neck, and that pleasurable pain was what sent him over the edge, his orgasm shooting up his spine, blooming under his skin like rare desert blossoms. He was in his body, but he wasn’t, somehow tapped into the immense thirst of the desert, sighing in relief at the taste of rain, of Jongin. He was the fault that slept under the mountains, waking at the touch of Jongin. He was the lingering clouds, offering the last of its drops.

Until he wasn’t anymore. He was back in Jongin’s room, spent and out of breath; sweat shone on his skin, cum cooling on his stomach. Jongin was caressing his cheek, a worried look in his eyes, and Kyungsoo sucked in his breath, his eyes watery. Too much. Everything was too much.

Somehow, Jongin knew. He snuggled Kyungsoo close, his fingertips tracing sweet nothings along Kyungsoo’s back. And Kyungsoo buried his face in Jongin’s neck, clinging to Jongin’s back, but thankfully nothing came of it, no perfume of honey, no exposed fault line waiting to slip; it was just Jongin, warm skin still slightly damp with sweat, the scent of sex mingling with Jongin’s usual spiced perfume.

—

“Come with me,” Jongin said softly, breaking through Kyungsoo’s muggy reverie.

“Hm?”

“Come with me,” said Jongin. “To the desert.”

Kyungsoo blinked at him. He was wearing a red and blue western shirt, the sleeves folded to his elbows, and boot-cut jeans. A fashionable, very hot cowboy. Almost corny, because Jongin could wear anything and make it look more expensive and _couture_ than it was. Hell, he could probably wear Sean Astin’s mesh shirt and striped pants and pull it off. And then Kyungsoo thought about making a joke about wanting to ride Jongin into the sunset, but instead he said, “What for?”

“To spend time with you,” Jongin said with a giggle. “Is that a good enough reason?”

Kyungsoo blushed, lowering his eyes.

“Yes, it is,” he murmured.

He walked around the counter, biting his lips to keep the laughter at bay. The laughter evaporated the second Jongin cupped Kyungsoo’s cheeks in his hands and kissed him, deep and wet and warm. Kyungsoo whimpered when Jongin pulled away, mourning the loss of Jongin’s lips. Jongin teased him with a quick chaste kiss, rubbing their noses together.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, kissing the button of Kyungsoo’s nose.

“Wha— hang on, Shanghai Noon, I gotta clean things up here,” Kyungsoo spluttered.

Jongin barked out a laugh but sat in the closest egg chair, watching Kyungsoo shut down the computer and tape up the sign.

“Alright, Owen Wilson, let’s go,” Jongin said, smacking Kyungsoo’s ass.

“How come I have to be Owen?” Kyungsoo whined, but Jongin only whistled in response, clambering into the car.

Kyungsoo spied a crumpled up napkin and threw it at Jongin, giggling when the other yelped.

“Where’d you get that from?”

“Your own car, dummy,” Kyungsoo said, rolling his eyes. “Maybe you should’ve cleaned it before you asked me to get in.”

Jongin put on a spectacular wounded pout, his cheek smushed when he rested it against the wheel.

“If you don’t get in now we’re going to miss out on the gold in California,” he whined, “dirty car or not.”

Kyungsoo snorted but got in. Jongin wasted no time, turning up the volume when Sweet Home Alabama started to play.

“Oh no, not that one,” he squeaked, turning it back down with a giggle.

“If you hadn’t put that back down I would’ve gotten out and walked back to the motel,” Kyungsoo joked.

Jongin shot him a glare, but punched a button on the car’s radio. More Than A Feeling began to play, at least until Jongin stepped on the gas and the wind picked up, taking the music with it. Jongin sang along anyway, drumming against the steering wheel as they made their way out to the desert. Kyungsoo tried not to laugh, but he couldn’t help it, joining in song when the chorus began.

But all too soon the drive was done. They were by the same pile of rocks from their first trip, but this time Jongin perched himself on the back of the car, his bare feet against the leather seats. Kyungsoo followed his lead, accepting the can of Pampelonne French 75.

Silence, still yet not still, rippling with questions unanswered. Well, not complete silence, because the radio was still playing The Chain, but it was as much a part of the landscape as the scraggly bushes and the clean blue of the sky. Kyungsoo felt strangely at peace. He didn’t need to understand Jongin to revel in him. He was content with being lost.

“I am,” said Jongin, so quietly Kyungsoo almost missed it.

“You what?”

“I _am_,” he repeated.

Kyungsoo stared at him, waiting for the rest of the sentence, but Jongin didn’t say anything else.

“You are _what_?” Kyungsoo hissed.

Jongin chuckled, shaking his head.

“I _am_, Kyungsoo. Just a little bit of existence, of the experience of the moment,” said Jongin. Kyungsoo wiped the condensation of the can on his shorts, brain whirring at a mile a minute; he wasn’t as hip to the whole zen outlook as Antoine was, even though the guy spent an entire afternoon explaining it to him. 

“You sound like you’re trying to make me a Beatnik,” he muttered.

Jongin snorted, giving Kyungsoo a fond look. Kyungsoo tried to frown at him, but Jongin’s lips were distraction enough when the other kissed him. “Let me finish,” he mumbled against Kyungsoo’s lips. Kyungsoo grunted his assent. “I’m the places in between, the not quite here and the not quite there. I’m the desert waiting in anticipation for the coming storm, and I’m the storm itself. I’m all the things you love about the world, because you’re the one who called me here.”

Kyungsoo leaned back and stared, lips parted as he processed what Jongin told him. Then, “Wait— me?”

Jongin nudged him playfully, knocking his shoulder against Kyungsoo’s.

“Yeah you,” said Jongin. “We, and by we I mean all the others out there like me, are drawn to people who can appreciate the world. Usually that means artists, like you, people who take the time to really drink in life. You being here in this place, this not-quite-here place, writing and reading and walking in the desert, sitting on the rooftop to watch coming storms, all of that called me to you.”

More silence, in which Kyungsoo looked out over the scrub and the sun-baked rocks, the waves of sunset red and orange lapping at the parched landscape.

“So you’re like a spirit?” Kyungsoo asked, his voice cracking.

“I guess?” said Jongin, taking Kyungsoo’s hand in his. “I’m here to remind you of the wonders of the world.” Kyungsoo sucked in his breath, shivering at the breath of cool night air that washed down his back, though the full weight of the sun still shone on him.

“L-like a muse, then?” Kyungsoo asked, a blush forming on his cheeks when Jongin pulled him close.

“I suppose so,” he said.

“Isn’t this—” Kyungsoo paused, licking his lips. “Isn’t this a little dangerous? Like, can’t people get lost in this? Go crazy?”

Jongin’s breath tickled his ear, the sensual caress of blissfully cool evenings, then the stifling and overwhelming wet heat of a building afternoon shower as Jongin sucked a wet kiss on Kyungsoo’s neck. He swirled his tongue over the spot and the sticky heat of backseat car sex in a drive in movie theater made Kyungsoo shudder.

“That’s always a risk,” Jongin whispered, slipping his fingers under Kyungsoo’s shirt.

Kyungsoo giggled and wormed out of Jongin’s touch, batting away the other’s hands. Jongin settled for clasping Kyungsoo’s hand in his, pressing a quick, sweet kiss on Kyungsoo’s cheek.

The quiet morphed into something else, something a little more like longing and things left unsaid. Kyungsoo sighed, scrunching his nose.

“What’s wrong?” Jongin murmured, leaning close enough for their arms to be flush.

Kyungsoo sniffed and shook his head, but Jongin gave him a skeptical look. “I hate that I’ll have to say goodbye to you so soon.”

“Why’s that?” Jongin asked.

“W-well I assumed you were going to leave at the end of summer,” Kyungsoo sputtered.

“Why would I want to leave you?” Jongin asked.

Kyungsoo’s heart didn’t know what to do. It somersaulted and flipped, flustered and hopeful and bashful all at once. He blushed, hiding his face in the fabric of Jongin’s shirtsleeve.

“My grifting in California can wait,” Jongin teased, wiggling his eyebrows when Kyungsoo gave him an unamused look.

“Very funny, Joaquin,” Kyungsoo shot back.

They both dissolved into giggles, at least until Jongin pulled Kyungsoo in for a kiss. A regular kiss, soft and sweet, but it still made Kyungsoo melt. He snuggled into Jongin’s side, but promptly sat back up.

“Will it always rain when we—” Kyungsoo finished with a gesture that mimed sex.

Jongin chuckled, then shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out.”

Kyungsoo’s cheeks flushed pink; he tried to disguise his giggle with a cough, but Jongin’s raised eyebrow was a sure sign his ruse hadn’t worked.

“I’m sure it’ll be different for each place we go to,” Jongin continued. “The prairie isn’t the same as a forested valley, and the desert is nothing like a swamp. Maybe when we have sex in Washington the sun will break through all that nasty mist.”

Kyungsoo hummed, losing himself in the thought of Jongin fucking him in the backseat of the car in front of a mountain sunset. He liked the thought a lot. But— “How are we supposed to go to all these places? I mean, this motel job isn’t nearly enough for a road trip.”

Jongin smiled. “The great thing about liminal spaces is all the money people lose in it.”

Kyungsoo frowned at him, then his eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Mm,” Jongin hummed. “So, we can continue our adventure whenever you want.”

“Continue?”

“It started the day I was called to that motel, peach,” Jongin said softly.

“Right. Yes,” Kyungsoo lifted his can, waiting for Jongin to do the same. “To our adventure.”

“To our adventure,” Jongin purred.


	2. Poem List!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A compilation of all the poems I included in the fic

Peach | D.H. Lawrence

Would you like to throw a stone at me?

Here, take all that’s left of my peach.

Blood-red, deep:

Heaven knows how it came to pass.

Somebody’s pound of flesh rendered up.

Wrinkled with secrets

And hard with the intention to keep them.

Why, from silvery peach-bloom,

From that shallow-silvery wine-glass on a short stem

This rolling, dropping, heavy globule?

I am thinking, of course, of the peach before I ate it.

Why so velvety, why so voluptuous heavy?

Why hanging with such inordinate weight?

Why so indented?

Why the groove?

Why the lovely, bivalve roundnesses?

Why the ripple down the sphere?

Why the suggestion of incision?

Why was not my peach round and finished like a billiard ball?

It would have been if man had made it.

Though I’ve eaten it now.

But it wasn’t round and finished like a billiard ball;

And because I say so, you would like to throw something at me.

Here, you can have my peach stone.

—

Still will I harvest beauty where it grows | Edna St. Vincent Millay

Still will I harvest beauty where it grows:

In coloured fungus and the spotted fog

Surprised on foods forgotten; in ditch and bog

Filmed brilliant with irregular rainbows

Of rust and oil, where half a city throws

Its empty tins; and in some spongy log

Whence headlong leaps the oozy emerald frog. . . .

And a black pupil in the green scum shows.

Her the inhabiter of divers places

Surmising at all doors, I push them all.

Oh, you that fearful of a creaking hinge

Turn back forevermore with craven faces,

I tell you Beauty bears an ultra fringe

Unguessed of you upon her gossamer shawl!

—

Beautiful Signor | Cyrus Cassells

All dreams of the soul  
End in a beautiful man’s or woman’s body.  
  
—Yeats, “The Phases of the Moon”  


Whenever we wake,

still joined, enraptured—

at the window,

each clear night’s finish

the black pulse of dominoes

dropping to land;

whenever we embrace,

haunted, upwelling,

I know

a reunion is taking place— 

Hear me when I say

our love’s not meant to be

an opiate;

helpmate,

you are the reachable mirror

that dares me to risk

the caravan back

to the apogee, the longed-for

arms of the Beloved—

_Dusks of paperwhites,  
_

_dusks of jasmine,  
_

_intimate beyond belief  
_

_beautiful Signor  
_

_no dread of nakedness  
_

_beautiful Signor  
_

_my long ship,  
_

_my opulence,  
_

_my garland  
_

_beautiful Signor  
_

_extinguishing the beggar’s tin,  
_

_the wind of longing  
_

_beautiful Signor  
_

_laving the ruined country,  
_

_the heart wedded to war  
_

_beautiful Signor  
_

_the kiln-blaze  
_

_in my body,  
_

_the turning heaven  
_

_beautiful Signor  
_

_you cover me with pollen  
_

_beautiful Signor  
_

_into your sweet mouth—_

This is the taproot:

against all strictures,

desecrations,

I’ll never renounce,

never relinquish

the first radiance, the first

moment you took my hand—

This is the endless wanderlust:

dervish,

yours is the April-upon-April love

that kept me spinning even beyond

your eventful arms

toward the unsurpassed:

the one vast claiming heart,

the glimmering,

the beautiful and revealed Signor.

—

Snake | Katie Peterson

The thunderstorm came like a pot boiling over and the color

of water was made by that, all of a sudden, a pigment

more tropical than dense with the reflection of light.

Everywhere the scent of at least five different kinds of plants

lifted up. The desert can’t talk back but I believe

it breathes instead, breathes vivid when the water

wants it the water can’t wait and it breathes back.

I turned and went into the house.

Under the dining room table, a snake.

Green with a yellow stripe bisecting its back.

Motion ate each centimeter of floor

and air, scared, it makes sense to say, though there

exists or existed no safer time ever in which that shape

wouldn’t want to move, dead August being the exception

to this when heat makes molasses of all of us.

Why did I want to chase it out? I did, I got a rake and kept

making it make that beautiful scared

shape upon the floor, so clean.

Like two ice cubes rubbing each other

and too cold to melt. Nothing organized that fear.

Seeing the edges it found its way out.

—

rice & rain | Robin Gow

all the rain came down at once like a dropped bag

of aquarium pebbles. too much for the street to swallow:

all gravel & grit. i feel the saltwater rushing

in my mouth as i hit the shore — sand becoming rice.

the pot on the stove — put on the lid. we read the

back of the bag — bring the water to a boil — it

protests in the clouds. rainwater peeling open

car windows to fill the floor — make mobile your

lakes & the herons will come — don’t feed the birds rice.

my favorite summer storms are the ones

that come too fast. they remind me so much of myself:

gathering their gray hair in a bouquet to beat

against the highway. i think of the times the thunder

would toss geodes at the street until they cracked open,

about dad telling my brother & i to go upstairs

& shut the windows before the storm snuck inside.

the car prayed until it drove on water — ocean barreling

toward us like a great big whale: blueness open & mouth full

of salt. you ask if we should stir the rice & the water

hisses & spits. we often forget about the ghosts

who kneel in pots of water. there’s always a wooden spoon. i keep

mine in the glove box. taking it out, i park the car with

the four-ways on. other monsters slosh past.

we get out on the side of the road. kneeling i plunge

the spoon into the bank: chicken broth & rice.

rain warming our bodies until there’s no

mistaking us from the stove. i burn my feet getting

back into the car. our flesh turns chicken-white & tender.

somewhere in all of this i managed

to drive across the whole unknown ocean — the one

without a name that shows up only when it downpours.

makes tides that eat radar & sailors.

picks rice grains from her teeth.

the other side is not land, but soft rice steaming

& ready. our legs sink in. take a spoonful of me

before i drive home a second time. the sun emerging like

a quartered bell pepper. i’m thinking of

lying in a rain puddle with you & falling apart

into a palm full of cooked rice.

—

Lady of Shalott | Alfred Tennyson

**Part I**

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

To many-tower'd Camelot;

The yellow-leaved waterlily

The green-sheathed daffodilly

Tremble in the water chilly

Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver.

The sunbeam showers break and quiver

In the stream that runneth ever

By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley,

The reaper, reaping late and early,

Hears her ever chanting cheerly,

Like an angel, singing clearly,

O'er the stream of Camelot.

Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,

Beneath the moon, the reaper weary

Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,

Lady of Shalott.'

The little isle is all inrail'd

With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd

With roses: by the marge unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,

Skimming down to Camelot.

A pearl garland winds her head:

She leaneth on a velvet bed,

Full royally apparelled,

The Lady of Shalott.

**Part II**

No time hath she to sport and play:

A charmed web she weaves alway.

A curse is on her, if she stay

Her weaving, either night or day,

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be;

Therefore she weaveth steadily,

Therefore no other care hath she,

The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear.

Over the water, running near,

The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.

Before her hangs a mirror clear,

Reflecting tower'd Camelot.

And as the mazy web she whirls,

She sees the surly village churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls

Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

Goes by to tower'd Camelot:

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, came from Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;

'I am half sick of shadows,' said

The Lady of Shalott.

**Part III**

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley-sheaves,

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,

And flam'd upon the brazen greaves

Of bold Sir Lancelot.

A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd

To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,

Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

As he rode down from Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

As he rode down from Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

Moves over green Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'

Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom

She made three paces thro' the room

She saw the water-flower bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

'The curse is come upon me,' cried

The Lady of Shalott.

**Part IV**

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

Over tower'd Camelot;

Outside the isle a shallow boat

Beneath a willow lay afloat,

Below the carven stern she wrote,

_The Lady of Shalott._

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,

All raimented in snowy white

That loosely flew (her zone in sight

Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)

Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,

Though the squally east-wind keenly

Blew, with folded arms serenely

By the water stood the queenly

Lady of Shalott.

With a steady stony glance—

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Beholding all his own mischance,

Mute, with a glassy countenance—

She look'd down to Camelot.

It was the closing of the day:

She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam,

By creeks and outfalls far from home,

Rising and dropping with the foam,

From dying swans wild warblings come,

Blown shoreward; so to Camelot

Still as the boathead wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her chanting her deathsong,

The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,

She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,

And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden wall and gallery,

A pale, pale corpse she floated by,

Deadcold, between the houses high,

Dead into tower'd Camelot.

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

To the planked wharfage came:

Below the stern they read her name,

_The Lady of Shalott._

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,

Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.

There lay a parchment on her breast,

That puzzled more than all the rest,

The wellfed wits at Camelot.

'The web was woven curiously,

The charm is broken utterly,

Draw near and fear not,—this is I,

The Lady of Shalott.

—

Jabberwocky | Lewis Carroll

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;

Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

—

Still Life | Roberto Tejada

We’d often

been included in

the weather, whose

changes (as in the

still, portending

darknesses of after

noon) were hardly

evident, if even

manifest at all.

The August rain

over Mixcoac

& the deadening

of all aspect

at a distance:

yet our sudden

wet bodies, firm

swelling divested

finally of shirts

& trousers, left

beside turbid

footprints on

the tiled floor;

this tongue, these

lips the lightning

over the unchartered

landscape of your

thigh: successive

terra nova to

resist the still

life of the body

—

Oranges | Roisin Kelly

I’ll choose for myself next time

who I’ll reach out and take

as mine, in the way

I might stand at a fruit stall

having decided

to ignore the apples

the mangoes and the kiwis

but hold my hands above

a pile of oranges

as if to warm my skin

before a fire.

Not only have I chosen

oranges, but I’ll also choose

which orange — I’ll test

a few for firmness

scrape some rind off

with my fingernail

so that a citrus scent

will linger there all day.

I won’t be happy

with the first one I pick

but will try different ones

until I know you. How

will I know you?

You’ll feel warm

between my palms

and I’ll cup you like

a handful of holy water.

A vision will come to me

of your exotic land: the sun

you swelled under

the tree you grew from.

A drift of white blossoms

from the orange tree

will settle in my hair

and I’ll know.

This is how I will choose

you: by feeling you

smelling you, by slipping

you into my coat.

Maybe then I’ll climb

the hill, look down

on the town we live in

with sunlight on my face

and a miniature sun

burning a hole in my pocket.

Thirsty, I’ll suck the juice

from it. From you.

When I walk away

I’ll leave behind a trail

of lamp-bright rind.

—

The Platonic Blow | W.H. Auden

It was a spring day, a day for a lay, when the air  
Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown;  
Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there  
On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.

I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined  
A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged  
Much. I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,  
I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.

Our eyes met. I felt sick. My knees turned weak.  
I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to say.  
In a blur I heard words, myself like a stranger speak  
“Will you come to my room?” Then a husky voice, “O.K.”

I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy  
He told me his story. Present address: next door.  
Half Polish, half Irish. The youngest. From Illinois.  
Profession: mechanic. Name: Bud. Age: twenty-four.

He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along  
The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck  
The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong.  
His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.

And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart.  
I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh.  
His reply was to move closer. I trembled, my heart  
Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.

I opened a gap in the flap. I went in there.  
I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge  
Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh then to hair.  
I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.

He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way:  
Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt.  
And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away.  
Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.

The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft  
With perfectly beveled rim of unusual weight  
And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft  
Was of noble dimensions with the wrinkles that indicate

Singular powers of extension. For a second or two,  
It lay there inert, then suddenly stirred in my hand,  
Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do.  
And then with a violent jerk began to expand.

By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick  
Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size.  
Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick,  
A royal column, ineffably solemn and wise.

I tested its length and strength with a manual squeeze.  
I bunched my fingers and twirled them about the knob.  
I stroked it from top to bottom. I got on my knees.  
I lowered my head. I opened my mouth for the job.

But he pushed me gently away. He bent down. He unlaced  
His shoes. He removed his socks. Stood up. Shed  
His pants altogether. Muscles in arms and waist  
Rippled as he whipped his T-shirt over his head.

I scanned his tan, enjoyed the contrast of brown  
Trunk against white shorts taut around small  
Hips. With a dig and a wriggle he peeled them down.  
I tore off my clothes. He faced me, smiling. I saw all.

The gorgeous organ stood stiffly and straightly out  
With a slight flare upwards. At each beat of his heart it threw  
An odd little nod my way. From the slot of the spout  
Exuded a drop of transparent viscous goo.

The lair of hair was fair, the grove of a young man,  
A tangle of curls and whorls, luxuriant but couth.  
Except for a spur of golden hairs that fan  
To the neat navel, the rest of the belly was smooth.

Well hung, slung from the fork of the muscular legs,  
The firm vase of his sperm, like a bulging pear,  
Cradling its handsome glands, two herculean eggs,  
Swung as he came towards me, shameless, bare.

We aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch,  
All fact contact, the attack and the interlock  
Of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch  
Of his fresh flesh, I rocked at the shock of his cock.

Straddling my legs a little I inserted his divine  
Person between and closed on it tight as I could.  
The upright warmth of his belly lay all along mine.  
Nude, glued together for a minute, we stood.

I stroked the lobes of his ears, the back of his head  
And the broad shoulders. I took bold hold of the compact  
Globes of his bottom. We tottered. He fell on the bed.  
Lips parted, eyes closed, he lay there, ripe for the act.

Mad to be had, to be felt and smelled. My lips  
Explored the adorable masculine tits. My eyes  
Assessed the chest. I caressed the athletic hips  
And the slim limbs. I approved the grooves of the thighs.

I hugged, I snuggled into an armpit. I sniffed  
The subtle whiff of its tuft. I lapped up the taste  
Of its hot hollow. My fingers began to drift  
On a trek of inspection, a leisurely tour of the waist.

Downward in narrowing circles they playfully strayed.  
Encroached on his privates like poachers, approached the prick,  
But teasingly swerved, retreated from meeting. It betrayed  
Its pleading need by a pretty imploring kick.

“Shall I rim you?” I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.  
Turned on his side and opened his legs, let me pass  
To the dark parts behind. I kissed as I went  
The great thick cord that ran back from his balls to his arse.

Prying the buttocks aside, I nosed my way in  
Down the shaggy slopes. I came to the puckered goal.  
It was quick to my licking. He pressed his crotch to my chin.  
His thighs squirmed as my tongue wormed in his hole.

His sensations yearned for consummation. He untucked  
His legs and lay panting, hot as a teen-age boy.  
Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked,  
Clawing the sheet, all his pores open to joy.

I inspected his erection. I surveyed his parts with a stare  
From scrotum level. Sighting along the underside  
Of his cock, I looked through the forest of pubic hair  
To the range of the chest beyond rising lofty and wide.

I admired the texture, the delicate wrinkles and the neat  
Sutures of the capacious bag. I adored the grace  
Of the male genitalia. I raised the delicious meat  
Up to my mouth, brought the face of its hard-on to my face.

Slipping my lips round the Byzantine dome of the head,  
With the tip of my tongue I caressed the sensitive groove.  
He thrilled to the trill. “That’s lovely!” he hoarsely said.  
“Go on! Go on!” Very slowly I started to move.

Gently, intently, I slid to the massive base  
Of his tower of power, paused there a moment down  
In the warm moist thicket, then began to retrace  
Inch by inch the smooth way to the throbbing crown.

Indwelling excitements swelled at delights to come  
As I descended and ascended those thick distended walls.  
I grasped his root between left forefinger and thumb  
And with my right hand tickled his heavy voluminous balls.

I plunged with a rhythmical lunge steady and slow,  
And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue.  
His soul reeled in the feeling. He whimpered “Oh!”  
As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.

Then I pressed on the spot where the groin is joined to the cock,  
Slipped a finger into his arse and massaged him from inside.  
The secret sluices of his juices began to unlock.  
He melted into what he felt. “O Jesus!” he cried.

Waves of immeasurable pleasures mounted his member in quick  
Spasms. I lay still in the notch of his crotch inhaling his sweat.  
His ring convulsed round my finger. Into me, rich and thick,  
His hot spunk spouted in gouts, spurted in jet after jet.


End file.
